


Red

by violetbin



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Angst, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Violence, don't worry it still has humour and a bit of fluff!!, like really slow burn!!, mental illness recovery, not as bad as it sounds, this isn't all sad it's meant to be bittersweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-04-23 01:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetbin/pseuds/violetbin
Summary: People have grown bored of asking. Maybe they already know his reasonings are just excuses. The thought makes Jisung’s insides twist into a racking knot, but relieving it would be worse than living with it. Breaking habits is harder than dealing with the pain they elicit.Jisung’s habit? Wearing long sleeves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Noir by Sunmi for like 99% of the writing process, love that song.
> 
> This fic focuses a lot on inner thoughts, some of them can be depressing but I promise it's evened out by positivity and humour etc! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS (please don't read this if the following subjects make you uncomfortable!): depressive thoughts, possible suicidal thoughts, possible character death, self-harm, mention of suicide, violence, abuse.
> 
> Well, anyway, I hope you enjoy!

People don’t usually find something they’re not looking for. 

Sounds a bit weird, doesn’t it? Let’s demonstrate. Someone who wears makeup daily might be self-conscious about their acne. However, if they go outside bare-faced people likely won’t pay attention to their skin condition. But the person still doesn’t want to do it, not when they can see every single zit on their face and it disgusts them. 

Now let’s take this example, but make it something more severe. People aren’t usually desperate to hide their faces behind foundation every day. But what if this issue was so unbearable, the feeling of everyone’s eyes drilling through you so strong that you simply can’t believe they won’t see what you do? That the mere idea of someone seeing makes reality tip off its edge like your life is collapsing?

Jisung is used to this feeling.

Logically, he knows people wouldn’t care or maybe even notice. The concept of repercussions is more vague than realistic; after all people are too intent on finding their own flaws to recognize someone else’s. He’s gone through the inner conflict thousands of times, asking himself what’s the worst thing that could happen. Jisung can never really answer that. All he knows is that the anxiety poisoning his mind in those situations is too thick for a plausible answer to generate.

Summers are the hardest time to deal with it. Jisung’s three months are supposed to be filled with bathing in sunlight and swimming with friends. Instead they consist of faking colds and staying in the shade like a vampire, putting the blame on his sensitive skin. Excuses slip off his lips too easily. 

People have grown bored of asking. Maybe they already know his reasonings are just excuses. The thought makes Jisung’s insides twist into a racking knot, but relieving it would be worse than living with it. Breaking habits is harder than dealing with the pain they elicit. 

Jisung’s habit? Wearing long sleeves. 

Sounds like a pretty innocuous one. It’s not like he’s hiding a bomb under his sweaters that gather curious glances in the heat, but in a way that’s exactly what’s hidden under them.

A little time bomb that ticks off the moment his sleeves accidentally lift up. 

Jisung’s got to say, he’s done a pretty good job until now. Endured awkward PE lessons, changing in the toilets and somehow feigning atopic eczema to avoid swimming. Even survived a time when someone dropped pizza on his shirt.  

But summer? Sweating under the fabric, an annoying itch on his skin, a voice menacingly urging him to just take his sweater off. Summer is the worst.  

Summer in a new city is even worse.

 

His gaze is plastered on the parched pavement so he won’t have to witness the curious glances of people passing by. Jisung’s heart weighs heavy even though he knows he shouldn’t care. Not knowing anyone is both a blessing and a curse.

He does know exactly one person here, a friend actually. In Jisung’s mind this person doesn’t exactly count as someone to worry about, though, which is why he excludes the guy from his calculations in evaluating this new challenge of a town brimming with new faces. Chan is one of the few people he’s genuinely comfortable with, meaning that talking with him isn’t socialising. Almost inevitably, socialising entails awkwardness and excuses for Jisung. 

If he had the choice, Jisung would just stop the worthless push and pull between his conscience and desires. That would mean rolling his sleeves up or walking out of his apartment in a T-shirt despite his heart almost exploding when he’s about to do so. He almost has – on those particularly confident days Jisung stares at his own reflection, face twisted, and ends up defeatedly changing back into an oversized hoodie. 

Changing the way your mind works isn’t simple as telling yourself to stop. Otherwise he wouldn’t have started. 

Seeing people confidently showcasing their flaws makes Jisung’s arms itch. They remind him of why he can’t be a normal part of society. Of himself. Those moments are a slap of ice cold water on his face that don’t let Jisung forget himself being the reason for his own restriction.  

The little stripes on his skin make Jisung an outsider. They’re a remainder of his captivity within his own mind. Acknowledging what they are makes everything real – it puts a lock on the past he wants to forget.

Why is it so hard to say the word, even to himself? 

 _Scars._  

Jisung still gets mad whenever someone jokes about mental illness or generalizes it to be something _quirky and relatable._ If they knew half the pain people have to endure they wouldn’t talk about it. They would hide the darkness within their minds, like he does, shielding themselves from the black and white picture society paints of mental illness. According to the outer world people suffering from these problems are lesser. They’re not stable enough. They’re not adept. 

That’s what he’s been told his whole life.  

Jisung ran away from home at fifteen. Upon a small slip up his parents found out he’s not _normal._ That he doesn’t only like girls, he’s into guys too. His father called him deranged. Flawed. Jisung’s last memory from his home is a hall filled with broken glass, his mother’s apologetic eyes and his father’s fury.

At the time _it_ felt like his only escape. It probably wasn’t. And he wishes it wouldn’t have felt like it.  

Now Jisung is okay. Everyone has bad days, right? On the worst ones his instinct kicks in, trained nerves make him reach almost automatedly for something to press onto his arm. Jisung’s mind becomes filled with an obsessive urge to feed the emptiness within him. Even when he’s physically hurting, becoming addicted and more shredded into bits, it’s something to replace the void with.

Jisung knows better. He has found ways to cope. But once possessed by that murky darkness, you can never really get rid of it. It just becomes a type of background noise you learn to ignore. And Jisung ignores well.

After all, he’s happy. At least within his own bubble. Joking around often comes naturally to Jisung. He joins in on activities, smiles and laughs hard. He’s the loudest of his group of friends by far. Sometimes he feels like he’s making up for everything he lost with this new vigour for life. Forcing himself to be happy for the sake of the times when he wasn’t.

But the voice in his head never really leaves. It’s always there and always will be. Dormant, ready to pounce when he lets his guard down. That’s why Jisung has learned, almost too skilfully even, how to disappear.

And now it’s easier than ever. Jisung had to leave his hometown and friends for university. He’s alone once again. The distractions worked well as long as they existed, but once there's nothing to fill the emptiness it starts eating at his insides again. Jisung's chest weighs down from something he can’t really identify, something bittersweet.

 

The knocks on Chan’s apartment door echo in the dry air, shortly followed by a thud and swears. The corners of Jisung’s mouth twitch upwards.

The man on the other side of the doorway has dishevelled dark hair and an alarmed look in his eyes, not a scared one but the I've-only-slept-two-hours-what's-happening kind. His shoulders relax and his rigid expression melts into a tired smile when he sees Jisung. Tired, but full of welcoming warmth.

“It’s changed a lot since the last time you were here, right?”

Chan gestures at the space around them. The room is small to begin with, but the new addition of scattered books and stuff that looks like gym equipment makes the space almost claustrophobic.

“Tell me about it... did afternoon yoga just end?”

Chan makes a face at him. “They expect an awful lot of equipment knowledge from sports physician students,” he explains while hoisting a set of dumbbells out of the way. “And of course, biology and physics. They’re trying to kill me with books.”

Jisung watches with a slight smile as his best friend stumbles back and forth, trying to make the place a little more homely. He knows how much of a hard worker Chan is. And he can’t really blame Chan for being perfectionistic; it’s a trait they’ve bonded over.

“What about you?” Chan asks, finally settling down to look at his friend properly. “We haven’t seen in ages.”

Usually physical contact makes Jisung’s heart beat oddly fast. In an unpleasant way. The only person whose touch he doesn’t squirm to is Chan. Yet even now he flinches ever so slightly when his older friend’s arms wrap around him.

Chan notices; damn him and his over-attentive empathic self. He steps back and sends a concerned look towards the younger. Jisung feels like he’s being x-rayed under Chan’s examining gaze.

“Stop that, Chan, you’re not a psychologist,” Jisung snaps, but makes sure to smile while doing so. Jisung is so used to faking smiles that he’s not really sure when they’re real himself.

Chan isn’t convinced immediately. His eyes narrow before he turns away. “Fine, but you know you can trick others but not me. Just tell me if there’s been... problems.”

Jisung’s blood freezes despite the sweltering weather. Instinctively, an itch starts creeping up his arms and he bites down the desire to scratch the blemished skin.

“It’s nothing like that. You know how much I regret it. I would never again...”

His voice trails off. Chan is the only person who knows, but it’s still hard for Jisung to talk. His throat fills with a huge lump whenever he thinks about it. Patronizing heat rises onto his face, the kind that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

It doesn’t make sense. Jisung’s mind is at war for a moment. Why should he be nervous? This is his friend who accepts him and wants to help. And yet, every single bad scenario plays out in Jisung’s head, the stigma he’s cultivated over showing his true skin shooting down every rational thought.

“Jisung... I’m sorry. I know it’s a touchy subject. I just want the best for you.”

“Yeah, let’s forget it, ok? I'm good, seriously. Now let’s go out. Show me the best bar this city’s got.”

Jisung wants to forget his circling thoughts. He can’t see beyond the dark water he’s been thrust in yet again. It suffocates him even though he’s forced himself to believe he won’t fall back. He always does. It’s these kinds of moments when Jisung feels like all he can do are setbacks, like his mind isn’t meant to work. He’s not meant to work.

Chan picks up the hint and doesn’t object even though he’s decidedly tired. Jisung doesn’t have it in himself to feel guilty. He needs distraction and right now it’s his priority - yet in some corner of his mind a voice is screaming at him, insulting him. _You’re a horrible friend. You don’t deserve Chan._ He wants the voices to _shut up_ , why do they always come back? Why does it happen so suddenly?

*

Jisung isn’t sure if he can say the blistering heat and condensed smell of alcohol and perfumes are really what he needs. But they get the job done and that’s enough.

His head is filled with the blissful buzz of intoxication. At a point he can’t really determinate his short-term memory stopped functioning. Now he’s sitting opposite Chan, playing around with his empty liquor glass and swaying absentmindedly to the music.

Jisung enjoys the neon flash across his face, making his skin a canvas for an array of magenta, blue and green. His earlier thoughts are but a haze of the past now, trying to knock on his mind but not getting through.

“Can I have your beer?” Jisung asks with some struggle to get the words out without slurred speech. “You’ve barely touched it.”

Chan offers him the drink with a tense smile. Something about him seems off, but Jisung isn’t in the state to start analysing. His mind might be clear enough to notice something is wrong but not enough so to care. Nevertheless, Chan plays along to Jisung’s endeavour, nodding and engaging in the latter’s drunken and overly animated storytelling.

Even in this semi-conscious state, Jisung doesn’t stop tugging at his sleeves. Caution has become so ingrained in his mind that even when he’s barely aware of anything else, the one mannerism stays. His hands bury themselves even deeper in his shirt when a boy (a cute one, by the way) joins them and starts chattering.

After that it’s all blurry.

*

Sunlight meets Jisung’s eyes on the bed of Chan’s cluttered room. For a moment all he can do is blink against the hangover writhing behind his eyes.

The only things Jisung remembers are maybe punching someone, most likely flirting with people and someone’s face glaring at him with a peculiar expression. The man’s features are clouded but stronger than that Jisung recalls a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Though that might have been the impending vomiting reflex. He has to ask Chan if he threw up.

The action of glancing at his arms comes naturally to Jisung. He sighs when instead of skin he sees fabric. But the relief doesn’t even have time to set within him before his muscles tense.

_I hope nothing bad happened there._

Jisung’s body filters through something heavy when enters the living room. Of course his friend had not only brought him home safely and cared for him, but also let Jisung sleep in his bed and settled himself for the sofa.

“Sorry, Chan,” Jisung whispers. Something burns at the top of his chest. He’s too much. He shouldn’t make his friend go through stuff like this. It’s purely Jisung’s own fault, causation of his mood swings and inability to deal with them.

Maybe his coping mechanisms aren’t the best, after all.

While Jisung’s busy staring around the room awkwardly and contemplating an escape plan, Chan gets up and makes his way to him.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Chan extends his hand tentatively as if to try Jisung’s forehead, but hesitates last-second. He takes Jisung’s lack of response as consent and checks if he has a fever. Always so caring. Jisung can’t feel grateful, instead his mind is filled with a voice screaming _undeserving_.

Hangovers are the worst part of getting drunk. Not only do they deliver an express package of pain, they also muddle Jisung’s thoughts into a possibly worse soup of emotions than before. Ironic. He can never escape. Even when he tries to cancel everything out it comes back two-fold.

“I’m good. Thanks.” It sounds somewhat mechanic escaping his lips, as if he’s not the one talking. Jisung swallows his anxiety and asks what’s bothering him. “Did anything... bad happen yesterday? Anyone hurt, any throwing up or... stuff?”

Chan’s expression turns into something unreadable. Something that looks like he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or sigh miserably.

“It was... curious, at the least. You started flirting really confidently with this one guy, I think his name was Hyunjin. You were having a real pick-up line war.”

Jisung buries his face in his hands. “Sounds promising already,” he mutters through his fingers.

“You even told him your address and told him to visit sometime,” Chan says, laughter making its way into his voice.

“But you didn’t throw up or anything, nothing got, uh, shown…” Just a glance towards Jisung’s arms is enough to tell him what Chan means. Then the elder’s expression becomes... grave? Worried? It brushes upon Chan’s face in a second and then he becomes a blank cover again.

“Some guy behind you started staring at you weirdly, so I thought it’s best to leave before you get in a fight. Though I think you already pissed him off.”

“What, what did I do?”

Chan snorts. “Well, he was pretty short, so you, uh... You called him a garden gnome.” He shakes his head. “Though he was pretty buff, looked like a thug. He wasn't even two inches shorter than you. I was scared you’d just signed your death certificate.”

“Oh, gosh. No drinking for a while, then?”

“You need to be careful, Sung. I forgot to tell there's quite a few gangs here.”

Jisung’s hands are becoming nervous to get something to fiddle with. He picks up a spiral notebook lying on a desk and starts twisting the metallic wires.

“You can have that, if you want,” Chan says and quickly lifts his hand as if to object when he sees Jisung’s expression. “No, really. It’s empty and I know you have stuff on your mind. You can write in it.”

Even though Jisung has a hard time expressing feelings, he wishes he could do something to show his ever-growing gratitude towards Chan. He’s a true friend. He knows Jisung’s best way to escape is pouring out his confused feelings on paper. Jisung nods, muttering some form of a thank you.

After an unmeasured time of converting his thoughts into ink, the weight on Jisung’s shoulders has lifted. He’s nestled comfortably next to Chan on the sofa while the older works on an essay. Even the slight touch between them as Jisung somewhat leans into Chan doesn’t feel awkward.

For a while ignoring Chan’s gaze that lingers on him works well. Then Jisung gives up.

“What, do I have a coffee stain on my shirt?”

“You feel better now, right?” Chan says. With a glance towards him Jisung takes note of his dour smile. Chan’s eyes are even more tired up close.

“Yeah.” And this time Jisung smiles genuinely. He’s happier. He can’t really pinpoint why he was sad a while ago, but he wishes this feeling would last. Not perfect, but his mind is emptier and the throbbing headache doesn't bother him that much anymore. “You’re the best friend for a jerk like me, you always clean up after my dumb messes.”

Is it just Jisung’s imagination or is Chan’s smile becoming progressively sullen? Jisung feels bad for taking up so much of his busy friend’s time. He insists on leaving so that Chan would have more time to work.

“No! No, I work well when you’re just there, next to me,” Chan says hastily. “But I get it. Let’s meet up for a coffee next week?”

“Sure thing.” Ok, Jisung doesn’t enjoy hugs, but he said nothing about ruffling his friend’s hair. He likes the feeling of Chan’s curls. A soft blush frosts the elder’s cheeks as he punches Jisung playfully before waving him goodbye.

 

Jisung’s apartment is cold despite the heat. The quietness sets eerily upon every corner though the only noise even at Chan’s place was just his fingers tapping on a keyboard.

He fills the emptiness by blasting music. Mostly to distract himself from the growing intensity of the voices in his head. Jisung dances around as if he’s shaking off all the negativity. _I won’t let myself lose this feeling, not yet._

Enjoying his own company is hard. When Jisung is alone, there’s nothing to cancel out his thoughts and that’s when they gain access of the scary parts of his mind. But he has to distract, it's the only way.

A click resounds in his apartment. Jisung flinches and curses his Bluetooth speaker. It’s been acting up these days but this is the first time it makes a noise like that. He picks it up in hopes that it’s not about to break.

Everything happens with a flash.

A flash of blinding light as pain shoots through Jisung’s head. A flash of everything in his apartment through tripled vision. He falls. Flashes of blood before him. It’s his own blood, he’s coughing it up and pain is jabbing through his head with every jerk and someone is speaking, there’s three or five or seven of them.

Hands tug Jisung’s hair roughly and the lights go out - someone’s blindfolded him. But he can still hear, voices reach him from somewhere distant as if he’s underwater. An impact lands on his ribs. Agony explodes in Jisung’s chest, his body is floating beyond pain. Something abrades his wrists.

Only when it’s too late does Jisung notice he should’ve fought back. He spits out blood and hopes it reaches the person tying his hands up. A last pulse of anger flares up in his body and Jisung kicks, jerks his arms, tries to do something even though he knows there’s no hope left. Someone slams Jisung’s head onto the floor and the grip around his arms tightens.

“Fuck you,” Jisung manages to gasp out before being swallowed by nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! The first chapter! What do you think? Comments, opinions, criticism are all welcome so please do voice your thoughts. Thank you so much for reading <3


	2. Chapter 2

Death doesn’t feel the way he’d expected.

Disappointing, actually. Jisung thought that with death you’d stop thinking. Everything would just cease to exist. But here he is, enveloped by dense darkness, awful thoughts still accompanying him. And a horrible headache.

Wait.  

Is physical pain a thing in death?

Oh, shit.

Jisung tries to recall what happened. Impact, then fainting. What was in between? Voices... People.

He’s been kidnapped.  

Jisung’s senses blare into action. His skin throbs where ropes dig into it. There’s something jammed into his mouth and its taste mixed with the iron of blood makes him want to throw up. The smell of wherever he is stings in Jisung’s nostrils in a mixture of acrid and musty.

And the pain. It batters every last inch of Jisung’s skin. He can barely breathe with ropes binding his chest.

There are no voices around him. Jisung tries to move but he’s tied to a chair. Typical. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but fear overwhelms his dark humour.

Trying to remember all the cheesy gangster films he’s watched is harder when he’s actually inside one, blinded by pain and anxiety. Is he supposed to struggle? Shout through the gag?

He decides to wait. They can’t have left Jisung alive for no reason. They want something.

What the hell do they want?

After a time he can’t determine, when he’s starting to feel like consciousness is slipping away from him again, Jisung’s blindfold is finally lifted. It takes a while for his vision to start working again.

The dimly lit room reminds him of an abandoned warehouse. Either it’s desolate or the lack of light just prevents him from seeing any furniture. There seems to be only one person in the room, glowering at Jisung with the blindfold in hand. The light casts shadows on his scabrous features and makes his face look purely menacing.

“I’m taking his gag off,” the man says without taking his scalding gaze off Jisung.

Jisung squints; there’s movement in the corner of the room. He isn’t alone with the scab-faced man after all. Something inside him squirms. He has to put his all into biting back a scream when his mouth gets relieved of the horrible rag.

“Speak. We know if you’re lying. So tell us.”

Even in this situation all Jisung can think of is a snide remark. But his eyes are fixed on the gun resting on his captor’s side. Jisung swallows down a nauseating gulp of mingled blood and pure terror.

“I- I really don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m not rich, I have nothing to offer and-” The man’s face hardens. “I don’t want any trouble don’t kill me please.” The last sentence comes out in a high-pitched jumble. Jisung’s limbs tense out of instinct, trying to protectively draw in.

“We won’t kill you as long as you don’t get hostile. Your information is too valuable.”

“Uh- I... thanks?”

Jisung gasps when a hit lands on his cheek.

“Stop stalling, fuckface. We have four more of your guys captive and if you wanna see them alive you’re talking, now.”

Jisung’s mind is swimming with pain and confusion. What the hell is the gangster talking about?

“You- you’ve got my friends? Don’t hurt them-”

“B, do I get the taser?  We know he’s a tough one, we’re not gonna get a word out of him without more force.”

Jisung doesn’t think he can endure much more pain. How can he get out of this when he doesn’t even know what he’s got into?

“Look, there must be a misunderstanding, I’m not important in any way, I’m just a confused dumbass who wants to still continue living so-” His frantic monologue is cut off by someone’s voice. A voice that makes shivers pinch his skin with tiny daggers.

“I’ll talk to him, you can go.”

The man’s face falls in disappointment - he seems to have really wanted to use that taser. The figure in the shadows finally steps into light.

Jisung inhales sharply. “You- the garden gnome-” He’s too late to cut his speech off. Jisung curses loudly in his mind. Well, there goes his life.

The man called B pulls out a gun and points it directly at Jisung’s face. The cold indifference in the way he does it tells he’s used to it. Used to killing without caring.

An urge to vomit throttles Jisung’s stomach but he stares at the barrel without moving, focuses his eyes on the black hole that can end his life in a second.

“I could end you right here, right now, just because your pathetic ass annoyed me and spat blood on my face.” Despite everything, hearing the last part causes a wave of complacency to lift Jisung’s mood by a fraction.

The memory of the man at the bar becomes vivid. His features, his voice - this definitely is the same guy. Did Jisung say something so offensive that the short dude decided to seek revenge on him in the most gruesome way?

“Oh fuck, please just get it over with if you’re gonna kill me. No, wait, I don’t wanna die a coward- Fuck, this really sucks, ” Jisung groans.

“Can you shut your mouth for a moment and maybe I’ll let you live.” B lowers his gun and stares down at Jisung with an expression of utter contempt.

Chan was right. The man is short but buff, his tattoos curving along the definition of his biceps. Jisung really doesn’t want to be punched by him so he tries to force his trembling body to calm down.

“You’re making this hella more complicated than it needs to be. Just tell us how you did it and we might let you go alive as a scare for your guys. But right now you’re pushing it.”

“Can you even tell me _what_ I did?”

The man’s eyes are obsidian, yet they manage to darken still. “Still playing dumb, are we?”

He kicks the chair’s leg and it falls backwards onto the hard floor with a sickening bang, knocking the air out of Jisung’s lungs. His head hits the stone floor. Jisung’s vision fills with red lights.

“Let’s see what you think after a day without food or water.”

*

Something slithers around Jisung’s throat, but when he moves his hand to touch it, there’s nothing. His fingers only meet a cold film of sweat on his pulsing skin. The invisible constrictor pushes against his windpipe, forces him to gasp for breath. The small rational part of his mind identifies what’s happening before he succumbs.  

A scent of oxidised alcohol wafts across the room. The memory is so strongly etched into Jisung’s mind that he’ll never be able to forget that smell – even in the flashbacks, he smells it. He experiences it. Over and over again.  

Why this memory of all?

A throbbing pain flares across his arm. Jisung knows what will happen before it occurs. He’s seen this movie tens of times. Redness and stickiness pooling under him. Glass shards crunching under his bodyweight as he stumbles to get up. The overwhelming thought that fills his mind, pouring over the edges in scarlet. _I deserve this pain._ The foundation upon which he built for years after.

A familiar voice rings through his skull.

“You fucking nuisance! Staining our family! We gave you so much and this is what you give back? Have you SEEN the bill from your fucking therapy, and now this?”

An unknown force grasps Jisung’s body. Every inch of him trembles and the abhorrent taste of bile crawls up his throat. The invisible arm forces him to get up. Something pulses through him, a desire to shout back, heave glass shards. Desire for revenge. But emptiness overwhelms the feeling quickly. Darkness fixes itself inside him with finality. It’s set off, devouring him whole and surrounding everything with a nightmarish heaviness.

The voice doesn’t give up. It’s mixing with the loudening shouts inside Jisung’s head. Driving him crazy.

“What do you think you are? A fucking _whore?_ That’s the thanks you give us? You’re probably fucking everyone and taking our money!”

Tears choke in Jisung’s throat. But they don’t get further than that. He’s beyond crying. His feet stumble even though he’s not aware of making them move. He gives in to instinct.

_I have to get out of here._

Something flies to his direction, but Jisung is too desperate to stop to look. Every inhale is a new stab in his chest, every step clumsier than the previous. His life is beating hopelessly within him. _Not yet_ , it says. _Don’t let me die._

His arm hits the door, colours it red. Everything is hurting. His vision blurs. Selfish desire makes Jisung shoot one last glance at the place he once called home. He lets himself take in the image of his father standing only a few meters away, anger contorting his face, and his mother cowering behind him, sobbing - as if trying to apologize wordlessly.

And then Jisung leaves.

Something thuds on the door when he closes it. Through a haze his mother’s cries reach the hallway. Jisung stumbles down the stairs, emptiness throbbing in his chest where his heart used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit shorter than intended because the other option would've been posting a very long chapter, but I decided to cut it in two parts. So the next chapter will be longer! 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed I made a few changes in the first chapter. I only just saw the format was wrong at some parts. And yes, I also changed the fic summary because I'm indecisive... sorry! Anyway, hope you liked chapter 2 <3


	3. Chapter 3

Jisung wakes up in agony and confusion.

For a while he thinks the pain is just a residue of his flashback. But this is way worse.

The ache in his body has progressed to periods of bashes identical to hammers clouting him. His blood is replaced with lead. But at the same time everything feels light and faraway. Jisung can’t think straight through the territorial battle of hunger and pain in his head. Which is more urgent? Is he going to die from the wounds or his body withering from no food or water?

Jisung’s father’s voice drills against his skull. He wants to grab his temples and scream. Yet in some extremely twisted way the overwhelming pain comforts him. Fills him with the same emptiness as before and distracts him from the mental anguish.

Something Jisung vaguely notices is the absence of ropes around him. No chair. He’s lying on the ground, one hand resting on his throat. The slow, weak pulse against his fingers tells he’s still alive.

And for what?

Why don’t they just let him die? What are they making him suffer for? What does Jisung have that they want but he isn’t even aware of himself?

A soft groan escapes his lips when he tries to get up. His body is weak. Jisung somehow manages to shakily support himself against the rough wall. The effort forms beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Had sweet dreams, sleeping beauty?”

The same man who knocked Jisung out is now sitting on the only chair in the room. He’s holding a knife, observing it like a treasure while playing around with it. Jisung wishes he had the energy to get up and punch the guy or something. He only manages a weak sneer.

“Fuck you. Why are you doing this to me?”

The man is up and next to Jisung so fast it seems impossible. His face nears Jisung’s, now a mere two feet from him. The only facial feature visible under B’s mask are his sharp eyes. They’re filled with a fierce, almost manic glow.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Why? Because your gang killed several of our people _for nothing._ You know the territory and you were on ours. Yet you went and hacked our system so your disgusting slugs could break in and abduct our people.”

Maybe if Jisung’s mind wasn’t so muddled he would’ve understood sooner.

“Wait- you’re saying-?”

The gangster looks like he wants to punch Jisung, or worse. Instead he walks back to his chair and grabs something from the floor. A water bottle. The blood dries on Jisung’s sandpaper tongue.

“Stop playing and maybe you’ll get some.” The man corks the bottle and takes a long gulp. Jisung’s stomach wrenches.

He can’t do anything but keep his nose to the grindstone. Hope that he’ll be believed.

“Look, man, I-I can’t tell you something I don’t know. I’m just Jisung, I moved here a few days ago and I start uni in September and I really, really would just like to live after finally-”

He stops abruptly. What is he even thinking? _After finally getting back the will to live after years of utter hell._

Despite being on the brink of unconsciousness, Jisung’s mind seems to still be damn adept to create deprecating thoughts. _Maybe this is all karma._

Jisung’s hands move automatically to pull at his sleeves but the movement makes a new pulse of pain flare through his body. Sweat dribbles down his jawline. His breath is growing shallow.

It takes Jisung a lot of effort to even focus his gaze on the man. Something in his expression is different. If Jisung wasn’t feeling so delirious he could almost swear the guy is contemplating.

“What did you say your name is?” he says quietly.

“H-Han Jisung.”

“You could be lying.”

Jisung groans. _Think._ How does he get through this?

“But I’m innocent! You can’t just kill me if you don’t know…”

“That just makes it easier. It means you’re useless and frankly I have no reason not to kill you. See how you like it when I spit on your face, punk.” But something in his voice has changed. The assertiveness of it wavers ever so slightly.

Maybe this guy doesn’t want to kill innocent people?

It’s Jisung’s only hope.

The man doesn’t turn away from Jisung when he makes a call. Jisung’s mind can only filter some of his quickly flowing words.

“...any other details of him? Physical features?” “No, we have to be sure...” “Idiot, we can’t kill him if he could be-”

“Well then find it out!” He finally snaps before hanging up and turning his gaze back towards Jisung.

“Guess it’s just waiting, now.”

Then he does something Jisung wasn’t expecting. He throws the water bottle across the room.

Jisung tries to steady his shaking hands so any of the water doesn’t go to waste when he gulps down. It tastes like pure ecstasy.

“Don’t think I care about you. We just have to keep you alive.”

Jisung can only manage a smirk before he lets a murky sleeplike state swallow him.

*

This time there’s no one else in the room.

Next to Jisung there’s a cup of readymade soup. He’s not religious but right now Jisung is drawn to thanking every possible higher force for letting him live. His stomach aches after he more or less inhales the cold soup in one go.

The before overwhelming pain has receded. Jisung finally gets to shift as comfortably as his concussed head and abraded hands allow.

He observes the damage inflicted on him. Dried blood and dirt on his hands, his jeans bear a large rip with a deep wound under and are chafed almost all through. A sticky feeling on the crown of Jisung’s head indicates an open cut. His chest throbs like it’s burning. Probably a broken rib.

It could be worse, right?

The only thing is surviving his thoughts for who knows how long.

It all feels like a punishment.

Naturally, at first the pure shock in Jisung’s mind was enough to push aside any other thoughts. Survival instinct took the controller, but now that it’s returned to Jisung…

Now the clarity is piercing him, everything becoming clear yet so suffocatingly confusing at once.

Disbelief for what’s happening. _Am I dreaming_ ? Denial. _It must be a dream, a prolonged nightmare, I have to wake up._

Realization. _No, it’s not a dream. You know it, Jisung, and you’re fucked._

Jisung pulls his legs against his chest. It hurts. He doesn’t care. Something thick as tar is washing through his body, a mixture of fear and agitation and abjection that makes him almost throw up the soup he just ate.

Jisung is so completely, utterly alone, without any distractions, and it makes his thoughts impossible to ignore. They’re digging through all of his regrets, everything he should have done and everything he wishes he didn’t. What if he dies here and he hasn’t even seen his mother in years? Would she be worried, heartbroken?

Without the stress of having to fake a smile, Jisung knows he won’t be able to keep the tears back. So he lets himself cry. Silently, with his forehead resting on his knees and body shaking, Jisung lets it out.

He doesn’t really know why he cries. Jisung tends to hide his feelings but now there’s no one to hide them from. His life is suddenly exposed to something he thought would never happen to him. It scares him. But not as much as the darkness in Jisung’s own mind.

Maybe that’s why, when the man called B enters the room again, Jisung is strangely calm. In some unexplainable way accepting the situation he’s stuck in is easier than dealing with his almost day-to-day thoughts. That and, Jisung isn’t really sure what’s happening and it annoys him. Something in his captor irritates Jisung, makes him want to just agitate him for no reason.

“Any news? Can I leave soon? I’m kinda getting bored of this summer camp,” Jisung says in possibly a more confident voice than he feels.

The gangster scoffs. “You sound cocky for someone who I could kill if you get too annoying.”

“But you won’t.”

“You sure?”

Jisung tries to search for B’s gaze but his eyes keep averting him.

 

A few minutes pass, enveloped by silence. Jisung sitting on the floor, the short man on the chair.

“Give me food,” Jisung complains.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ve only had some damn soup in who knows how long. I’m hungry.”

“Fuck off. Do you think this is a hotel?”

“Well I hope not, it won’t do good for your image when I rate it 0.2 stars,” Jisung says. He’s mostly joking around to keep himself sane at this point, and it’s working.

“I’m really close to ruining your pretty face,” B snarls without looking at Jisung.

“My face is pretty? Why thank you.”

“Shut up or I will stab you in the face.”

“Garden gnomes don’t scare me. Anyway, why are you called B? What’s it short for? Bubble? Bitch?”

“I swear I’m gonna choke you to death.”

Jisung gives a humourless laugh. The gangster glances at him and narrows his eyes.

“What’s under your sleeves?”

Jisung looks at his hands. Apparently he’s been tugging at his sleeves subconsciously again.

“N-nothing, this is just a habit-” But it doesn’t convince the guy. Jisung’s heart starts picking up its pace, it throbs against his ribcage as if he knows what’s about to happen.

“Lift your sleeves up, idiot.”

Jisung’s muscles tense and his fingernails bore into his palms. He stands up slowly and backs away from the man walking towards him.

B’s expression becomes frustrated. He lunges at Jisung, who tries to rip his arm free but his reflexes are weakened by his wounds and lack of nourishment. The man grabs Jisung’s sleeve and jerks it up.

For a moment they stand in almost palpably thick silence. B stares at Jisung’s arm with an unreadable expression.

All meaning in Jisung’s life seems to be sucked out. He doesn’t know what to think. Someone noticed. He saw the scars. Jisung’s sleeve is up, showing the memories of wounds on his skin. He wants to throw up.

The man lifts his head, makes eye contact with Jisung for a second. It’s almost as if his eyes reflect Jisung’s own emotions - disgust, regret, pain. Then B thrusts Jisung’s sleeve back down and shoves him against the wall with excruciating strength. Before Jisung has the time to restore the breath he lost or yell at the guy, B’s already slammed the door and left Jisung alone.

 

The fact that Jisung has to stay in utter darkness, without a hint of the time, knowing that a stranger has just seen his scars is agonising at the least. He paces around the room despite pain pounding in his body with every step. One might think Jisung is going crazy when he starts muttering to himself, but maybe that’s what keeps him sane through the stretching hours.

“Fuck, I’m so stupid… but why do I even care? I’m so stupid…”

“I shouldn’t have done it in the first place, no one would judge me and I wouldn’t be in this situation...”

Just as Jisung is about to bang his head on the wall in frustration, the door opens and a fragment of light escapes into the room.

“ _Now_ are you gonna kill me?” Jisung asks jokingly, but his humorous tone is mixed with venom. He’s truly growing mad now. Jisung wants to go, be it let out or killed. He just wants this torture to end.

B enters the room and doesn’t even spare a look at Jisung. “If I had a penny for each time I’ve told you to shut up.”

“Why is it you every time? I’m starting to hate your face,” Jisung snaps. Yet some small part of him is intrigued by this guy. Questions start flooding his mind.

“Why don’t you keep me tied up? What’s up with that, I’ve never seen a gangster movie where-”

The man snorts. “A movie? You think this is a movie?” He turns to look at Jisung with something new in his eyes. Interest? Scorn? If Jisung wasn’t so convinced that this guy has no empathy he could almost swear the look is that of worry. Jisung swats the thought away. It makes no sense.

“I know you’re innocent, you little shit.”

That really takes Jisung aback.

“What? So why don’t you let me go?” he almost yells.

“Are you stupid? It’s not that easy. Not everyone believes it, but not everyone is as intelligent as me.”

“Wow, that’s worrying then. How are a bunch of imbeciles able to hold up a gang?”

B lifts his hand as if to punch Jisung, but decides otherwise. “Ah, you’re so annoying. I should’ve just killed you.”

The situation strikes Jisung as a bit odd. It seems like his captor doesn’t want to hurt him. But why?

The man sighs. “We found out one rival gang’s member lives - lived - in the apartment you’re in. So when I overheard you leaking the address at the bar, we knew who to go for. Except-” B scowls, “some dumbasses didn’t find out that the guy just moved out. I noticed when I saw you don’t have the gang’s arm tattoos.”

Jisung’s skin becomes cold.

“A really dumb mistake to make. Why didn’t they check your arms?” The last word comes out a bit choked.

Jisung contemplates if he should ask the guy about it. It’s dumb, but have his decisions been the smartest until now? The answer is no, so he goes for it.

“What - what is it about my-” Jisung has to swallow a knot in his throat to get it out, “my arms, anyway? Why did you react like that?”

For a moment, they stare at each other through silence. B seems to contemplate whether to answer or to shoot Jisung. He opts for the first.

“You’re damn nosy for a hostage. Your scars reminded me of… someone.” The guy turns to look away from Jisung. His voice isn’t exactly sad. Instead a type of diluted mix of anger and regret tries to seep through the toughness. It’s like a wake-up call to Jisung. This guy is still human. Cold, but human - he must still have feelings.

“My mother. She had scars like yours.” B controls his voice better now. When he turns to look at Jisung, cold determination and disgust shine in his eyes.

“H-had?”

Jisung knows immediately that he shouldn’t have said it.

“She killed herself when I was just a kid.” The man scoffs, but it’s almost like he does it just to hide his voice cracking. “Didn’t have a dad, or money. So I had to join this gang to keep myself alive.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” Jisung can’t really think of a better response. Why is he sorry for his captor? Shouldn’t he be mad, overlook any sob story, because this guy chose a life like this?

But in reality, Jisung can’t blame him. He gets it. People don’t always have a choice over what their lives become like. Jisung if anyone can attest.

Jisung isn’t looking at B so he gets no warning when suddenly he’s grabbed by the collar of his shirt. Flaming tourmaline eyes stare into his own. Jisung can’t see the gangster’s mouth under the mask, but he can hear the sneer when the guy talks.

“Don’t you even fucking _think_ of pitying me. I’m done pitying myself. I don’t want empathy.”

“Anyway, you might wanna know why I told you. I don’t care if you know, because they want to kill you. We’re coming back in ten.” He lets Jisung go.

Jisung’s blood freezes. His head grows ten times heavier and a grey noise fills his whole mind. Every detail, every smell in the pathetic room sharpens and bombards him at once. Jisung barely makes out his own thoughts.

_They’re going to kill me._

 

Jisung takes back his earlier statement. Survival instinct kicks in. He doesn’t want to die.

He forces his muscles to work somehow.

“Wait- wait, you can’t be serious? You just said you know I’m innocent? What the hell, you can’t just kill-”

“Like I said, you jackass, they say we can’t be sure. A gang’s spy doesn’t always have the tattoos. But I think they know we can’t get any information from you. So they got bored, and now they want to get rid of you.”

B walks to the door without paying any more attention to Jisung.

Something’s different. He seems to hesitate, just for a second. Then he sighs and slips through the doorway, but there’s no usual click of a lock.

The door is still ajar.

Jisung’s mind races. Could it be? Could his luck be so good that the man has actually forgotten to close the door properly? Or…

Jisung’s heart hammers in his chest like it’s trying to escape his ribcage.

His legs move way too slowly when he half-runs to the door. The distance seems to keep multiplying before Jisung. Voices in the hallway make him pause right next to the deadbolt.

“What the hell do you mean we should take him there? Why don’t we just shoot him in now, where he is-”

“Because I’m in a higher position than you and I already have the majority’s opinion, idiot.” The sharp, raspy voice is definitely B’s. “The mess is gonna be too hard to clean. Or do you wanna carry a body down five storeys?”

The argument continues in muffled voices until- “Fine, I’ll get him alone then,” B grumbles as his voice nears the room. Fuck. Jisung has no way out now. His limbs are growing numb, panic washes over his head and clouds his thoughts. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He doesn’t want to die.

The door almost slams into Jisung’s face.

“What the-” B exclaims but quickly lowers his voice. “You must be the dumbest shit alive. You had a chance to escape and you didn’t take it?” He sighs. “Fine, I guess you wouldn’t have known how to get out. You should be thankful I changed my mind last-second.”

Everything seems like a huge prank, or a game. Why is his captor and the man who’s about to kill him talking like this? But at the back of his mind, Jisung already knows. The situation starts clearing up.

“I need you to not be dumb for once, ok? Just follow my lead and get the fuck out. Turn left, then right and you find a long hallway with doors. Second-to-last one takes you to the fire exit. Run like your fucking life depends on it, because it does.”

Then B shoves a gun and a phone in Jisung’s hand. Jisung’s phone.

“Now hit me with the grip of the gun.”

“What?”

“I said hit me. You’re running out of time.”

Jisung’s hands shake as he puts the phone in his pocket. Adrenaline pulses through Jisung’s body, his hand feels almost too heavy to lift up but he manages to swing the firearm. He winces when it connects with the man’s temple and B staggers back, bleeding.

“Fuck! What the hell- Guys, come here, we need backup!” B yells. Then he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Now fire. Not at me. Just so they hear it.”

Jisung does as he’s told. He backs down the hallway while firing at the walls a few times. The veins in Jisung’s head pulse so strongly that he’s afraid of them popping.

“You fucking- ugh! Fuck, how did this happen-” B stares at Jisung for a second. He mouths the word _go._

And Jisung runs.

He runs down the hallways, fumbles with the second-to-last door, almost dropping the gun from his shaky hand. Just before he’s about to step out, a flurry of shouts echo off the walls.

“What the fuck did you do? You let him go?”

“I told you, he took my gun, what could I do? I said you should’ve come with me!”

A muffled _thunk,_ a groan. Swears. Jisung’s stomach upends but he has no time to spare.

He runs down the stairs outside two steps at a time without looking back. Even though his legs are burning and head spinning and breath threatening to cut off, Jisung picks up his pace when he hears shouts coming from the building. He takes off to a foreign street and zigzags between buildings but there’s no gunshots to avoid. The area is deserted, darkness only partly fended off by flickering streetlights.

Jisung stops only when he’s sure he’s far away enough and a stitch in his side makes running unbearable. The gun in his hand weighs a million kilos and Jisung drops it to the ground as if it's searing hot metal. His breath is quick and ragged, gasping for air. Sweat has glued his hair onto his forehead and his muscles are on fire.

He’s free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you like the progression? Granted, I'm not the best at keeping a plot rolling but I hope you liked this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

Jisung is home. He doesn’t know how his legs had the energy to carry him there. He can only thank his luck for Google Maps still working on his phone. An exhausting heaviness sets upon his body but Jisung barely registers it. Every corner of the apartment he enters looks foreign, and not just because he moved there only a few days ago. This place, this life, doesn’t feel like Jisung’s anymore.

Everything is a mess.

Jisung glances at his phone. July 16th. He came back from Chan’s place on the 13th. He’s been away for three days. He has no idea how long he took getting home, just that dawn slowly broke as he walked, the fear of being caught slowly receding as darkness did. 

Shivers creep up Jisung’s spine when he glances at the floor in the living room. Dried blood on the wooden boards. His bluetooth speaker lies next to the stains, smashed. The memory pulses against Jisung’s temple vaguely like a dream. 

In a haze, Jisung gets a dish of warm soap water and a rag and scrubs the remainder of his assault away. He doesn’t have to make an attempt to ward off bad thoughts about the happened. Jisung’s mind is empty, confused, not yet comprehending where he got back from. 

Jisung stands up, the rag drips red liquid into the dish and his hands tingle. What now? 

Is he supposed to forget? Continue living his life normally? Tell someone? 

Jisung stands there until the cloth in his hands starts shriveling up and drying. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t swear and the most surprising of all, he doesn’t crave that familiar burn on his skin that used to be the solution to most conflicts in his mind. Jisung is simply frozen, unable to think. 

He decides to take a shower. 

The warm water should feel like heaven against his skin as all the grime washes away. Instead Jisung stares at a small crack in the tiles, feeling the drops only when the cascade becomes cold. He treats his wounds, mechanically sanitizes them and covers them with band-aids or bandages. The throbbing in Jisung’s ribs is distant, like the pain isn’t in his body or he himself isn’t. 

 

Jisung isn’t expecting to sleep that night. 

He stares at the ceiling, the wall, his hands. He closes his eyes for two seconds but something red flashes behind them and his heart starts immediately drumming twice as fast. Cold shivers travel up Jisung’s body even though it’s so hot that he sleeps shirtless, not caring about his scars because there’s no one else but him to see. 

Jisung decides to look at his arms, something he’s done countless of times before. It doesn’t really help him feel better but it helps Jisung direct his thoughts away from the recent events. 

It’s always sounded a bit weird to Jisung when it’s told that people remember their every scar or birthmark. If Jisung was to be asked how many scars he has or where they are, he couldn’t tell. Not because there’s too many. Maybe because he never wants to pay attention to them. Sometimes Jisung stares at his arms blankly but acknowledging is different. 

He doesn’t really know how to describe his feelings while looking at them. The night doesn’t grow dark enough in summer to hide the obvious marks criss-crossing his skin. One thing: they don’t look like those disgustingly “aesthetic” photos on tumblr. They look ugly. Every time Jisung glances at his arms he’s met with something squirming under his skin, making him want to hide forever. 

Jisung brings his fingers to his forearm and rubs his skin absentmindedly, brushing over the juts with his thumb. He hates how clearly they stand out and feel like intruders, unnecessary bumps that ruin the otherwise displayable canvas. 

They’re a part of him. In a way Jisung doesn’t know what it would be like to not see them on his skin. But every time he does, he wishes he didn’t. They feel distant, like fragments of a past life he’d like to forget. They don’t hurt. They just… frustrate. Annoy him. Make something burn behind Jisung’s eyes and clench his throat because he’d just want to be _free_ of the chains engrained on his skin. Free to get out of the house and not care. He wishes, every day, staring at those fucking marks on his skin, that they’d just disappear.  

But maybe he deserves it. 

Maybe there’s something in the universe causing all of this misfortune to fall upon Jisung. 

The ironic part is that when he looks at the scars, self-hatred burns deeply in his chest for what he’s done. The same kind of rancor that just makes him want to pierce his skin and watch the blood seep through his fingers. 

Sometimes his mind is terrifying. 

But for the next few days it’s so utterly blank that Jisung barely comprehends his surroundings. Everything he does is out of perfunctory need to survive. When he thinks back to what he did, Jisung can’t really tell. Staring at walls? Doodling or writing nonsense in his notebook? Everything is just a haze. 

 

Then one night it hits him. 

Jisung knows the mental barrier he built is finally being torn down. So he decides to catch up on Korean dramas. It’s already past midnight and up until now it’s worked well. But why are all the male actors’ voices starting to sound like a certain raspy voice, one that Jisung identifies too easily but doesn’t want to remember? 

He slams the laptop closed. Goosebumps prickle Jisung’s skin but he’s sweating. He grabs for his phone just as the memories start flooding his mind, finally breaking through the wall around it and drowning him. 

The phone rings for what feels like an eternity. 

“C-Chan-hyung, please, I’m sorry, it’s late b-but can you come over?” 

Minutes stretch out in bursts of red before Jisung’s eyes. He has to put all his energy into fighting against the flashbacks. When Chan’s face finally appears in front of him, it merges with the man’s whose features Jisung’s been trying to forget. Images swim in his blurry vision. 

“Oh man, Sung are you ok? What’s happening?” Chan’s voice is distant and distorted. But hearing it slowly brings Jisung back to reality. He’s in his room, with Chan, not in the stuffy warehouse.

Chan gets him ice cold water and opens the bedroom window. It helps. After a moment of slow breaths and letting his heartbeat slow down, Jisung leans onto the wall next to his bed and is ready to talk. 

He tells Chan everything.

From the hit landing on his head in this very apartment to B giving him the gun and letting him flee, Jisung talks until his voice becomes hoarse and a weight lifts off his shoulders. Telling it to somebody is much better than suffering through flashbacks alone. Though a few times Jisung has to bite back a shiver of revulsion as the memories strike him as if he’s still there.

There are many things Jisung didn’t take note of: at some point Chan started hugging him, probably when Jisung was trembling uncontrollably. And he’s wearing a t-shirt. Jisung pulls his head back in distress, his neck sore. Something is trying to wrap around his lungs, something suffocating and full of remorse, but his mind is simply too full of everything that he doesn’t even care.

This is the first time Jisung is voluntarily showing his scars to someone, and he’s too tired to even grasp the thought properly. The pit of his stomach is full of anxiously fluttering butterflies but other than that it’s not as bad as he expected.

Even the touch they’re sharing is actually welcome, comforting after all Jisung has had for days is the coldness of his own mind. The arm that Chan’s wrapped around Jisung’s shoulders rests on his bicep, lightly drawing circles on his skin. Jisung leans his head against Chan’s shoulder and relaxes.

Chan lets out a suffocated laugh. Not a humorous one, but the weak and sorrowful kind that just comes out when you’re so incredulous that it’s hard to react in any way.

“And I didn’t even know? There I was, revising and thinking you’re enjoying your summer break.” Chan turns to look at Jisung, his eyes full of so much pain that it makes Jisung’s heart clench up. “I’m so sorry, Jisung. I wish I could’ve helped.”

Jisung straightens up and shakes his head. “Hyung, you know you couldn’t. You’re helping now.”

Something Jisung loves about their relationship: sometimes he doesn’t have to ask Chan to do something. The elder simply knows what Jisung needs. Right now, it’s company. Chan doesn’t shower Jisung with questions nor make him talk if he doesn’t want to. He’s just there for him.

 

Jisung can’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to a sunlight filled room lying next to Chan, the elder’s arms loosely wrapped around his waist. He feels more well-rested than in weeks.

They both know that they have to speak about it over breakfast (which Chan insisted on making). Jisung tries to avoid Chan’s gaze but knows his overly caring friend won’t keep quiet.

“Sung, I know what you went through is a lot to handle,” he starts after putting down his utensils; a sign of him being serious. “But you need to talk about this to someone. Like the police.”

Jisung wonders how long he can feign interest in his coffee. He knows Chan just wants the best for him. “I don’t think I can really do anything about it? I could just get in more trouble. Besides, it’s not like they’re after me or something.”

Chan purses his lips like he knew Jisung was going to say that.

“Hyung. I won’t get in any more trouble, ok? I promise I’ll take care.”

“Fine, I guess I can’t force you. Just tell me if you’re in trouble or need someone, ok?”

“I will. Love you, Channie!” Jisung says in a joking tone. Chan looks away from him, a strange expression that Jisung can’t quite read rising onto his face.

 

*

 

It’s been almost two weeks.

Jisung can’t tell if time has slowed down or sped up. His thoughts seem to melt into a giant messy gob in the increasing heat. Sleeping is still hard - he keeps waking up to the same musty smell and pound in his head. The questions in Jisung’s mind don’t want to give up. Why did the guy suddenly let him go? Why hasn’t anyone appeared at his door again?

Every waking hour is governed by a simultaneous heaviness and lightness, something weighing Jisung down but making him extremely at edge. Even the most harmless noise and flash of light makes him jump and his heart pick up its pace. Nothing’s preventing someone from breaking into his apartment and taking him.

Jisung isn’t really sure why he hasn’t picked up sticks and moved out yet. (Actually, he is, and that’s the sad truth most students can relate to: money.) Tension grasps him every time he opens the apartment door. He keeps tiptoeing to it, looking through the peephole and checking that it’s locked for sure. He doesn’t want to stay in the place where just seeing that certain spot makes memories throb against his temple but Jisung is equally scared of walking on the streets and bumping into a gangster.

Something that Jisung has got back into and proved to be a good distraction are books. The library assistants already know him by name and greet him every time he either returns a heaping pile of books or spends hours wandering between shelves and devouring stories.

It’s a way for Jisung to escape reality for a while, leave his own life behind and enter into someone else’s through a good novel. And it also gives him a chance to stay away from his apartment. The library is a soft and safe environment. Surely nothing bad could happen there.

Never in a million years would Jisung have imagined meeting _him_ at the library.

At first, Jisung finds himself staring at a stranger who looks oddly familiar, trying to figure out what it is about him. Then, as the guy turns to leave the poems section with a book, Jisung catches a glimpse of familiar obsidian eyes.

He has to suppress a yelp of surprise.

If he wasn’t so sure, Jisung would think his mind is playing tricks on him. Surely his memories are just messing with him, making him see a familiar face on someone else? The thing is, why on earth would the gangster be wearing a pink hoodie and looking for poem collections at the library?

Yet when realization spreads across the man’s face, Jisung is sure. It is him.

Coldness instantly crawls up Jisung’s spine and his limbs stick together. His head hurts the same way it did in that cursed warehouse. The library was supposed to be a safe space, a place where Jisung could forget everything that happened.

For what feels like minutes they stare at each other, not being able to comprehend the situation.

The phone in the gangster’s hand lays forgotten right next to his ear, a muffled voice escaping it.

“Changbin? Hello, Changbin are you there?”

Jisung barely understands that Changbin must be B’s real name.

He wants to run away, leave the person that reminds him of all the pain and stress, but his feet are glued on the spot.

It’s almost as if Changbin and B are two different people. Changbin has the same vicious gleam in his eyes, but his face is softer than Jisung would’ve thought. Even under the black eye, broken lip and bruised forehead, he's definitely pretty. Even through the instinctive fear Jisung feels a pang in his chest. He knows Changbin got those wounds for letting him go.

An odd feeling is creeping up Jisung’s back, something familiar yet completely new. He can’t even decide if the feeling is positive or not even though he knows it certainly shouldn’t be.

Changbin looks a lot more defenseless in a mundane setting. The oversized hoodie somehow makes him appear smaller - almost innocent. It makes Jisung’s head hurt, as if he’s seeing hallucinations and can’t decide between reality and a lie. Is Changbin dangerous or not? If he didn’t know, Jisung could almost mistake him for a normal person.

But then again, what defines a normal person?

One thing is for sure and that is that Jisung’s life is far from normal. Otherwise he wouldn’t be caught in such situations that don’t even make sense according to the probability theory. No way is it possible that Jisung just comes across his captor like this.

His breath grows heavy and Jisung screams at his limbs to start working, to take him away from there before he passes out from his wounds and hunger that aren’t there anymore but start to pierce through his skull.

“Hyung, I’ll call you back,” Changbin finally mutters into his phone. Jisung flinches at the voice, it’s too familiar yet completely foreign.

Before the guy can move Jisung’s muscles start working again and he stumbles out, not seeing the people staring at him through a blinding red that threatens to swallow him.

 

*

 

Jisung feels like he’s going crazy.

Why the hell do his thoughts linger on the guy clad in a pink hoodie, holding a book in his hands and looking extremely soft? The juxtaposition of this image and the one of a gangster, his face hidden by a mask and a murderous glow in his eyes, makes Jisung’s head spin.

He knows he should just let it go. But Jisung is stubborn. When he wants something, he won't just give up. And he wants answers. In some twisted way he wants to feel the adrenaline, experience the tension in his chest when he talks to Changbin. But more than anything he wants to just forget. The dilemma is splitting his head.

This isn't good. Not good at all.

In addition to these new thoughts, Jisung is becoming frustrated. He spends even more time in front of his bedroom mirror, examining his arms revealed by a t-shirt. _Why is it so hard to just go outside like this?_ He tries to convince himself that people will never care as much as he does but the thought just feels incredulous.

Just as a desire to rip his skin off meets Jisung, his phone rings. It’s an unknown number.

“Hi, it’s Hwang Hyunjin,” the caller says.

Jisung wants to say, _who the hell?_ but figures it would probably be rude. “Uh, Han Jisung.”

Then he remembers. It feels like a thousand years ago when Chan recounted what happened at the bar. _“You started flirting with this one guy, I think his name was Hyunjin.”_

Oh, no.

“Hey, I know I probably said a lot of dumb stuff at the bar and invited you over,” Jisung starts as heat rises onto his cheeks. He really doesn’t feel up to hanging out with some random guy he tried to woo but doesn’t even remember. But he blurts out of courtesy, “Maybe we can get dinner?”

What the fuck, Jisung.

Hyunjin chuckles. “Sure thing. But make it fancy!” 

 

Ok, maybe it’s good that Jisung gets some distraction from his annoying, messy thoughts. But like he’s said before, socialising is awkward. And this time is no exception.

Now that Jisung has no alcohol to work as his defensive shield, he has to deal with everything on his own. Not like talking is necessarily difficult to him. Jisung can talk fast, almost like his brain is generating material and making connections faster than he can produce words. But sometimes people just don’t understand him.

This kind of push and pull with a person he doesn’t know is exceptionally hard. Chan understands Jisung’s mind well, even talking with Changbin was somehow dynamic. Then there’s Hwang Hyunjin, the pretty boy who makes Jisung blush but who doesn’t understand him at all.

The second they meet at a semi-fancy restaurant Jisung’s mind short-circuits. Not because the guy he’s meeting is admittedly very attractive, but Jisung can’t help but hear his father’s voice.

It’s the first time he’s going out on an actual date with a guy.

Jisung has tried to deny his attraction to guys since he ran away from home. Every time he checked someone out all he could hear were his dad’s furious yells, the disappointment reverberating in his head. He’s only dated one girl before, and that too didn’t end too well thanks to Jisung’s deteriorating mental health.

Hyunjin probably notices Jisung’s nervousness, the latter feeling utterly embarrassed that he even suggested this. The sleek restaurant is pretty full, all the chattering distracting Jisung’s thoughts.

“So, uh, maybe we should start fresh since the bar thing was pretty unofficial? I’m Han Jisung,” he suggests.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Were you that drunk?” But when Jisung’s cheeks become hot he just says, “Ok, ok. I’m Hwang Hyunjin, but you can call me your dreams come true.”

Jisung suppresses an incredulous laugh. So this Hyunjin guy is a flirt even when sober.

“Wow, I didn’t know you’ll help me self-publish a novel and end climate change! Impressive,” Jisung counters. Hyunjin just tilts his head and looks like he’s suppressing an eye roll.

Truth be told, Jisung isn’t as much into flirting as he enjoys making witty remarks. Hyunjin seems to notice this and instead of Jisung’s desperate attempts to lighten the tension between them, it just seems to become thicker.

“So Han Jisung,” Hyunjin muses, “have your friends ever told you your jokes suck?”

Jisung almost chokes on his food. “Wow, thanks for the honesty, I guess. Has anyone told you you’re pretty damn smug?” he slips out before being able to control himself. Hyunjin looks like he wants to throw his glass of water at Jisung.

The silence stretches between them like a rubber band, as do Jisung’s nerves. _I shouldn’t have signed up for this,_ his mind keeps repeating. What a great memory of a first date to reminisce.

For a few seconds they glare at each other in a silent staring competition, their meals forgotten. Then Hyunjin scoffs and rolls his eyes. Neither of them speaks until they’re finishing dessert.

“Well, I’m glad we now see we share the same feeling,” the pretty and annoying (and pretty annoying) guy says eventually.

“What?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. For someone so handsome he really does have nerve. “That neither of us is interested.”

 _Ouch._ But Jisung isn’t offended. He probably made Hyunjin really uncomfortable by not being attentive at all.

“Thanks for the free meal, though,” Hyunjin gives Jisung a saccharine smile before getting up. “You’re paying.”

Jisung sighs. He can’t say he didn’t see that coming. It’s just fair.

“No luck on the date?” the waitress asks while Jisung is paying. “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone!” They chat for a while, the girl telling him a story about how she met her current girlfriend. Jisung makes sure to tip her well. At least some people are still kind to him.

 

Jisung is exhausted from all the social contact as he steps out of the restaurant. For once he evening breeze is cool on his face. He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the refreshing air. Not even a few seconds pass before shouts cause his eyes to open, alarmed.

A gang fight.

A strange feeling whirls inside Jisung. No, it can’t be anything to worry about. Chan said there are many gangs around town. But maybe he should still avoid it. They seem to be moving closer to where Jisung is. He doesn’t want to risk being seen even if they’re from different gangs.

Then someone grabs his arm and pulls him off the street and into a dark alley.

“What the-” A hand covers his mouth.

Jisung’s thoughts shut down instantly. He can only see images and hear voices pushing against his skull, exploding in pain. His apartment, the warehouse, blood all flash before him and he doesn’t know what’s happening. Is someone trying to kidnap him again?

Adrenalin flares across his body. For a second Jisung feels like he’s going to pass out but he has to do something, the fear is so intense that it makes him act. He bites the hand and starts squirming, his heart threatening to explode.

“Ow! What the fuck? Be quiet, you fucking idiot!”

Jisung freezes. His breath stutters and his head is extremely light.

It’s Changbin’s voice.

Fear detonates inside Jisung, his mind travelling so quickly it’s about to crash and burn. Is his captor going to kill him? Take him again? Why are there no other gangsters around?

“What are you doing?” Jisung exhales sharply. He dislodges himself from the grip, surprised that Changbin doesn’t try to keep him, and turns around. Indeed, the short man dressed in all black is cradling his bleeding hand, his face hidden by a mask. Just like good old times.

“Saving your sorry life, again,” Changbin snarls.

 _What?_ Is this just one nasty trick? Jisung doesn’t let his guard down. He should run, what if it’s a trap, the guy trying to warm up to him just to capture or kill him? Jisung’s breath grows shallow, desperate. He doesn’t even have anywhere to escape if the guy tries something.

“I don’t need saving.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I wasn’t even in danger!” Jisung whisper-yells in exasperation.

“Really? Didn’t you see that fight? They could’ve seen you any second and likely killed you.”

Jisung stands for a second, processing. It makes sense. But he just can’t wrap his mind around the thought of Changbin wanting to save him again.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t!” Changbin says after a silence that only lasts a second, but that second is enough for Jisung to tell that he isn’t being completely truthful.

Jisung takes a few steps back, apprehension making his feet tingle, preparing them for a fight-or-flight response.

“I want to know what’s up with this whole mess.” He can’t help voicing his twisted curiosity.

“I don’t have time now, idiot.”

“Yeah, well that’s why I’m gonna keep annoying you until you do.”

“How?” Changbin scoffs. “I can just avoid you.”

“Well, clearly you don't want to.”

“Shut up.” Changbin peeks around the corner. Then his face returns back in front of Jisung. “So, what do you want me to do about it? I’ve saved your ass already, isn’t that enough?”

Jisung can’t make an excuse. The selfish side of his mind just keeps persisting that Changbin owes him an explanation. But Jisung is quite sure he doesn’t have to demand anything. Something tells him that Changbin wants to avoid meeting Jisung as much as Jisung wants the same. So, not much, even though they both want to deny it.

“Why do you keep wanting to save me? First you kidnap me and threaten to kill me, but now this,” Jisung starts. Something burns inside him, something resentful for everything the guy caused upon him. “Almost as if you’re a coward,” he spits with more vigour than he’d meant.

Jisung can’t see Changbin’s expression properly in the shadows that streetlights just about don’t reach. And maybe he should be grateful for it.

“Or you actually don’t want to kill people?”

Changbin looks away, and Jisung smirks to himself. Looks like he’s hit a soft spot.

“Don’t think you’re special. I’m just taking precautions because they’re still caught up on you getting away. Give it a few weeks and you won’t have to deal with them anymore. Or me.”

Changbin sends a dark glance towards Jisung, almost accusative, as if all that’s happened is his fault and all he does is get in the way. Well, he kind of does. Jisung feels like an extra puzzle piece that’s been thrown into a random collection against his own will.

Time drags on too slowly as Jisung stares at a spot in the concrete wall next to Changbin, not daring to look at him but not being able to divert his gaze in case the guy does something. Changbin keeps glaring around the corner and when the fight finally ends, he doesn’t even glance at Jisung but leaves him there alone, taking off and melting into the shadows. 

Yet something inside Jisung tells that this won’t be the last time he sees Changbin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really iffy about even posting this chapter. I kept editing it and taking parts out and truth be told I still don't like it at all. But i felt like I should still post this, even though I might delete or edit it later. I really hope this isn't too bad!
> 
> Anyway, it might be a few weeks before I can post the next chapter because I need to focus on studying for finals, I hope that's ok! Thank you so much if you've kept reading this far!


	5. Chapter 5

Changbin can’t stop glancing over his shoulder.

It’s a common habit that just grows on you when you join a gang. You never know if someone’s after you, or who that someone is. 

He’s parked the leased, probably stolen by one of his affiliates, car a few blocks from his destination. His stride is quick but careful, just about nondescript enough for no passers-by to suspect anything. However if not the tattoos bracing his revealed arms, Changbin’s frantic peering around himself probably gives out that he’s not on a simple leisurely afternoon stroll.

The gray area he soon enters doesn’t really belong to any local gang. It doesn’t make moving around any less dangerous. Usually Changbin would have a few guys flanking him, but this is a “special” task. 

Changbin sneers at the memory.

“You know you alone are responsible for this,” his boss, Mr. Ryu, had stared at him with the malice in his eyes only accentuated by the room’s artificial lighting. “You’re not getting away with a mistake so grand just like that.” 

At a wave of the boss’s hand the guys who held onto Changbin’s arms moved. A hit landed on his face. Changbin winced as he fell down but willed himself to keep quiet. He knew at the instant when he let that brat Jisung go that this would be the price. Punches evolved to kicks, burning against his ribcage and trying to mold him into a part of the floor, but Changbin stayed on his knees and endured.

“So…,” Mr. Ryu had started softly, after Changbin’s fellow gang members stopped and his left eye was swollen almost shut. “We still can’t ignore your intelligence. It would be a waste to kill you.” The man’s voice was silky, disgustingly so.

Changbin didn’t break eye contact with his boss as he rose up, careful to keep his expression icy and unreadable, even when blood trickled down his face and the taste of iron meeting his lips made his stomach churn.

“We have a special task just for you.”

Special, meaning extremely dangerous with a contingent risk of death. Someone has been pilfering their drugs right under their noses, little by little. No one knows if it’s someone from a rival gang as there’s no more than one man ever spotted, him only being seen around the part of town that Changbin is currently scouting and has no proper gang activity. 

Changbin’s job is to catch the bastard, make sure he never approaches his gang again and find the drugs. Easy.

A smart move from his boss, knowing that Changbin can’t refuse. Out here it really is kill or get killed. It doesn’t matter whose murdering hand it is, even friends are enemies in the end. One wrong move and he could get shot by his own gang.

Changbin is walking straight into a possible death trap. No way can he survive without backup if the man in question has his own gang on his side. The adrenaline that’s starting to rush into Changbin’s veins at this dangerous prospect is simultaneously painful and exhilarating.

 

He reaches a building that looks a bit like an abandoned grocery store, the windows barred and a darkness clamping onto the walls a little apart from all other buildings. This is it.

Now he just has to wait.

Changbin lingers in the shadows behind the corner, hidden by a standing neon board that’s already flickered out of life ages ago. Just before darkness sets a figure makes its way to the door, his hands shaking as he fumbles with his keys. Changbin squints, trying to make out the features he needs to identify; looks around 30, short, scruffy stubble and a mole on the cheek. That’s him.

Changbin might look clumsy with all his muscles, but he moves fast. The guy has no time to react before Changbin’s already pressing a gloved hand on his mouth and blade on his throat. Before anyone can see, he drags the man with him into the dark alley. 

“If you have any drugs, drop them,” Changbin snarls. The man tries to yell against his hand, struggling and writhing. Changbin presses harder with his knife, a warmness meeting his fingers when a trickle of blood escapes from the skin.

_Do it. Just slit the throat and get it over with. That’s what they would’ve wanted you to do._

A gun would have been easier but it causes too much noise. Changbin glances around again, just to make sure there’s no witnesses. His hand shakes ever so slightly when the stream of blood thickens, the blade biting into flesh harder. 

Changbin lets out a frustrated grunt. His hesitation comes with a cost: the man finally manages to elbow Changbin in the chin and he stumbles back, startled. The guy takes out a switchblade and lunges. 

Changbin regains his composure fast and whirls around, sending a jab at the man’s face with his free hand. For someone who looks weak the man surely isn’t stunned easily. Despite panting heavily, he barely hesitates to hit back, but with his blade instead of knuckles. This time Changbin isn’t so lucky. He receives a cut on his shoulder, flinching at the pain but not letting it affect him. 

The man makes the common mistake of acting upon his momentary victory. He gives a laugh and Changbin utilises the few seconds his guard is let down. He hits a spot right under the man’s shoulder blade, his knife slashing all the way down his chest. 

The man yelps as he falls to his knees, shaking when blood starts to wet his shirt. His energy seems to have drained as soon as his blood started too. Changbin can’t wait; he grabs for the keys that were dropped in the fight and stuffs them in his pocket. He makes quick observations now that the other is too weak to fight: no tattoos, scruffy appearance, no gang colours or characteristic clothing. 

“You’re not from a gang, are you?” 

“I- was just trying to make some money, dude,” the man coughs. He seems to be one of those semi-harmless druggies that resort to something stupid like stealing from a gang, anything to fuel their addiction. Changbin scowls.

Then the man grabs at Changbin’s leg, his face contorting into an expression that’s more pitiful than pained. Changbin tries to step back but the man slashes with his blade again, this time tearing a long gash on the calf of Changbin’s jeans.

“Fuck-” Changbin suppresses the desire to bend over out of pain, he tries to kick the man but his leg is too weak from the wound and his balance fails when he’s pulled by the ankle.

Just before falling Changbin manages to hit the man in the chin with his knee. He lurches backwards and bangs his head on the asphalt. A jolt fires through Changbin’s body when his knees hit the ground.

A burning warmness starts radiating from the open wound in his leg. The man in front of him lies motionless, a faint red sticking to his hair where his head connected with the ground, but Changbin knows he hasn't lost consciousness yet. Changbin's breath is heavy and calf throbbing but he heaves himself back up.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. But let this be a warning not to mess with us. If we find you stealing again we’ll be back with more men and this time not planning to leave you alive,” Changbin puts as much venom in his voice as he can to sound formidable.

Surely enough, the man will recover soon even though he’s in bad condition, dazed by the impact on the head. Changbin stands still for a minute. The addict’s fighting drive seemed to have stemmed from pure adrenalin and even if it had depleted Changbin can’t take any risks. He aims a forceful kick at the man’s temple and manages to knock the fiend out at once. Changbin stares at the man lying there, his unconscious body lonely as ever, wondering what led him to become like this.

Deciding against killing the man was pure logic, Changbin convinces himself. It would’ve created a scene to leave a dead body there. The man will regain consciousness and have learned his lesson. If not, then Changbin will get it over with and take his life, after all this encounter proved that it would be a piece of cake. But now, to begin questioning his intent would mean to lose time and Changbin can’t afford it.

 

Before anyone wanders to the deserted alley Changbin leaves the man hidden in the shadows with a heaviness weighing on his shoulders, the kind that ensues every time in a situation like this since his first fight. Adrenalin courses through his veins. Even when it’s disconcerting there lies something addictive in the way his heart beats and his stomach wrenches, like a high he can’t get enough of.

He enters the abandoned store that’s probably served as some kind of camping place slash home for the man and analyzes it for a second. What’s the most likely place to hide drugs? The building doesn’t seem like a common grocery store. Empty shelves line both walls, enveloped by dust, and an odd table stands in the middle of the room, probably moved there after the store closed. Instead of a door there’s a curtain propped behind the counter, separating the rest of the room from some kind of staff area. 

Changbin makes his way behind it. A sleeping bag lays on the floor, there’s a countertop with a battered looking microwave and different kinds of plastic waste litter the floor. The air is thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, marijuana and something stronger. 

If he was to hide drugs it would be somewhere secure… But there are no safes in the room. Just a locker, so they’re probably in there. Changbin searches for a key that fits the lock from the keyring he took from the man and finally, with an elbow to the rusty door and a tug, the locker opens. He finds a bag with familiar-looking packets full of white substance. Bingo.

Everything seems too easy when Changbin makes his way out the back door, the bag slung over his shoulder and zipped tightly shut. Sirens blare in the distance, nothing new, he just has to make sure to take a small detour along side streets and act normal. As normal as he can with cuts adorning his leg and shoulder, a half-healed black eye and gang tattoos.

The word _normal_ makes something tiny flicker inside Changbin, as if it was a foreign term that he doesn’t quite understand. All the same a memory of the boy he let go pops up in his head. He knew that idiot Jisung was no good when he laid eyes on him. Excruciatingly connected to the “normal” world, as one might say. Then again there’s no such thing as normal in this world. Normalcy is simply a concept people have adopted and decided to mould as they like. Ordinary would be a more fitting term. Han Jisung, just wants to live and go to university, how ordinary and somehow frustrating. Changbin is sure to ward the thought off immediately.

Changbin can’t do anything about his calf but feeling his jeans being completely soaked under the wound tells him that it’s nothing superficial. He hides his bleeding shoulder and slight limp as best he can as he walks hastily to the car. People seem to either not question him or notice that dealing with him would result in harm, so they decide to dodge. The sirens have receded and everything is quiet, tranquil even. Changbin is pretty sure that his boss won’t be happy to hear that he got out of this so easily. 

 

*

 

“Nice job, Changbin,” the man says as Changbin heaves the full bag in front of him. “I already told the guys to keep a better eye on the stashes. Still can’t believe how they let that happen.” His slit eyebrow rises high along with the other, full-length one as he rolls his eyes.

“Let’s go out for a drink, yeah? I’ve barely seen you at the clubs these days.” He’s all about the high life, Kim Woojin. The man is a paramount gang member, the supervisor of their drug dealing business, warm but cold at once. He treats the others with a stern and brotherly authority, never forceful or angry, but no one turns down his suggestions because something in his assertive calmness is even more intimidating than aggression. 

Woojin is someone who every new gang member knows and looks up to, finding him as a role model for what the underground life could bring. He has money, power and women (and men, it’s rumoured, but he denies them with his vicious dignity, after all it would be seen as a weakness in the gang and Woojin is not that).

He’s also the only person Changbin’s somewhat close to, who he could very opaquely call a “friend”. 

And so Changbin concedes, joining his so-called friend and a few other guys who he’s on good terms with out of obligation, for a night of karaoke and drinks.

In a gang, it’s all about “brotherhood”. The hoods become a new family once you leave your old life behind, but for Changbin they have never been anything but possible threats. He’s learned the hard way, though, that sometimes it’s better to become an actor rather than to show your opinions.

Changbin downs shot after shot mechanically, the others enjoying the singing room filled with exhilarated yells, swears and the scent of weed. It’s not a common karaoke facility that youth often visit, this one is a place of thugs, alcohol and rich men with a woman at each side. 

“Pass the blunt,” someone next to Changbin mutters, the guy’s had too much for his own good but still keeps asking for more. Drugs. The more of them you do, the more _tough_ you’re seen as. At what point does it cross the line between toughness and idiocy?

Changbin has tried to avoid them. He’s been caught on the downward slope of addiction, how else would he have propped up his rank and gained respect? Luckily it’s only the strong stuff he’s trying to stay away from. Changbin takes a long inhale when the joint is passed to him and lets the stifling smoke out with an almost relieved sigh. His body relaxes but he doesn’t let go of his stony expression. The simultaneously exalting and disgusting drug creates a buzz in Changbin’s mind.

He’s lucky to be determined, otherwise the alcohol and drugs would’ve made him like the idiots around him, swearing and wrestling each other. It just makes him wish he weren’t there. His mind is foggy and every noise is irritating. Wishing he could just sleep, Changbin lays back and hopes no one regards him with any attention.

“Come on, have some fun.” Woojin smacks Changbin on the shoulder. He’s barely affected by any of the substances. Woojin is always the last one standing, smirking to himself as everyone else goes wild animal mode. His tattoo-sleeved arms rest leisurely on the back rest of the couch, a cocktail grasped in the other. His gaze is so piercing it makes Changbin’s skin cold even when he should be too intoxicated to pay attention.

Woojin is intelligent; he knows if someone’s behaviour seems off. He leans away from the couch and takes one of the small plastic bags on the table, tips some of the white powder into a glass. Changbin’s muscles tense as he watches the small particles whirl and diffuse in the cocktail. 

“You’re not acting like yourself, Changbin,” the man says in an extremely soft voice. _So you know what I’m like?_ Changbin wants to retort. “Where’s all your vigour gone? Come on, show that you’re one of us.” He offers the drink, but everything about the action screams obligation. It’s not a question, it’s a command. 

Changbin brings a smirk onto his face. He won’t let everything go this easily. He grabs the glass with white knuckles and downs the liquid, making sure to keep an eye on the complacent smile playing on Woojin’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you weren't expecting that?
> 
> Wow, it feels like such a long time since I last updated.. sorry for the delay! I've been going back and forth with the concept of this chapter because I know the whole pov change is a huge hit or miss... Hopefully it's not disappointing! Thanks for reading ♡


	6. Chapter 6

Socialising is tiresome - Jisung wonders if he’s a sponge, judging by the way life has twisted every last drop of energy out of him. Maybe it’s because Hyunjin and his personalities clashed, or the adrenaline of the false kidnap alarm that completely drained him. For the first time in ages he falls into a dreamless slumber not even a minute after his head hits the pillow.

All he wants to do is sleep for a week. 

Just as expected from his luck though, the next morning after his date night Jisung is woken up as early as 7:30 am to his phone ringing. The noise pierces obnoxiously through the sunlight sifting in his room between shut curtains. Jisung groans and tries to bury his head deeper into his pillow, hoping that he could return to the rare treat of nightmare-free sleep.

When the call doesn’t seem to find an end Jisung begrudgingly peels himself out of bed. He stares at his phone screen in a muffled sleeplike state for a minute, wondering why his mum is calling him so early. Then realisation hits his heart up to his throat.

His mother is calling.

In many people’s lives this would be normal. But for Jisung, his parents haven’t made any active attempt to contact him since he ran away. Neither did he, in hopes of leaving the messy part of his life behind instead of dealing with the problem. It became so habitual that he never really paid attention to not talking to his parents. He hasn’t heard from them in years.

The noises of Jisung’s hammering heart are almost audible under his ringtone, beating way too hard for his own health considering he just woke up. His fingers are frozen. He can’t bring himself to move an inch, much less tap his phone screen. The choice itself wavers in the air around him, thickly, as if ready to determine the rest of his life’s course. 

The chime of his ringtone tapers off and the call ends, leaving Jisung in a silence louder than his ringing phone. Familiar images are starting to flash at the back of his head. He doesn’t have time to think before he jumps up and starts frantically pulling on a hoodie and sweatpants, his hands shaking as he competes with the time ticking in his mind. 

Jisung steps out of his room, surrounded by an invisible fog, a force that pulls him towards the bathroom and the cupboard under the sink where his blades lay hidden.

He never threw them away. Jisung doesn’t know why, he hasn’t used them in ages but still he brought them with him and set them there upon moving, because he just can’t make himself get rid of the small tin box they’re hidden inside.

Jisung’s whole body trembles, his mental barriers vanishing and taking him back to the first years after running away that were filled with red, sticky substance. He craves the pain, the blood, the feeling of control and freedom and…

And emptiness. The emptiness that consumed him day in day out, the thing he thought could only be filled by pain, but it wasn’t like that, it won’t be, he won’t let it be. It’s not the solution. Jisung knows it didn’t make him feel in the end, it just made him addicted. Jisung doesn’t crave the emptiness. He forces his mind to extract the deceitful voice from his memories. The part of his mind that longs for pain is fuelled by lies, an ideal he fed himself in hopes of coping. It didn’t actually help him cope, Jisung reminds himself harshly, his head hurting from the effort to break away from the venomous part of himself.

He somehow makes it outside right before it’s too late and the voice wins. The air is warm but the morning breeze still blows refreshing air into Jisung’s lungs that were on the verge of collapsing. He sets off in a run. Treading his thoughts down, Jisung diverts his full attention to the contracting of his muscles, the timing of his breath and the crunch of ground beneath his feet.

 

The sweat that tickles Jisung’s skin and the burn that blossoms from his legs to his chest are far from uncomfortable. It’s not the kind of pain he’s used to, but it alleviates the uneasiness in his mind. He finds the way his legs shake slightly while walking up the stairs to his apartment satisfying. Jisung takes an ice cold shower as an attempt to forget the bathroom cupboard, replacing pain with another pain of sorts. Gelid water rinses some of his worries away but not enough.

He still has to do something.

Does Jisung ignore the call? What if his mother calls him again? So should he just call her back and get it over with?

Push-and-pull of logic and pessimism. Even when logic poses believable arguments, the sneering voice inside him wins over every other option: maybe it was just a mistake. Convincing himself that it doesn’t hurt would be a lie. Even though Jisung wants to forget his past life, he can’t just let go of the person who cared for him for years. His mother was always there for him, even through his father’s anger management problems. She always supported Jisung.

That’s why her reaction was an even bigger blow than his father’s. Jisung thought she would’ve protected him, spoken up for him, but instead she just cried and apologised repeatedly. The worst part is that Jisung still doesn’t know if the apologies were for him or for his father. He couldn’t blame her at the time but as the years passed by and he got no call, no text, _nothing_ from her, Jisung became convinced that she didn’t care.

Resentment burns at the back of his throat when his phone rings again. Yet even then it’s only half-hearted. Even then Jisung can’t believe that it was his parents’ fault and not his own. Surely the reason behind everything is that he was never enough, didn’t make it as a successful son. Jisung sponges some of the water out of his hair and throws the towel on his bed, letting out an embittered groan. 

He doesn’t want to answer, but he can’t help the tiny spark of hope inside him igniting.

“Jisung-ah.”

His mother’s voice is wary, fragile, nothing like he remembers the poised and witty woman who was his role model for fifteen years. Hearing her like this makes him almost forget the years of piling sourness. Almost. Jisung blinks heavily, swallowing up his feelings when he answers in the most flat tone he can.

“Mother. It’s been long.”

“Jisung, I’m so glad, you’re safe right? Are you healthy? I’m-”

“Mum,” Jisung sighs. He doesn’t even know what to say. Four years. It’s been four years since he heard this voice, and now it feels like that of a stranger’s. “What do you mean, am I healthy? Why do you suddenly care now?” 

Jisung wants to just break down, but he keeps his voice steady because that’s what the person on the other side of the line always used to tell him. _Stand tall, darling. Don’t cry._

“Jisung, I’m so sorry. You know I still love you, right? You know I wanted to contact you but your father-” There’s a sound in the background that Jisung can’t identify. Like the mix of a suffocated sob and a wail. “I knew you needed time and I want you to be safe. I knew you would do well alone, you’re my Jisung after all.”

A part of Jisung is being cast back to childhood so violently that his heart hurts for the years that were still filled with happiness and innocence. He wishes he could return to his mother and just hug her but he can’t overlook everything that’s happened. The feeling that’s preventing him from latching onto his mother’s voice for hope like a small child again is unidentifiable, such as it is a mixture of countless layered emotions.

“Why are you calling me? Why now?” 

“Honey, I’m sorry but your father… there was an accident.”

Apparently there had been a gas leak at his father’s office, and him already having health complications… It had been a close call, but in the end he passed in the hospital.

Jisung can’t remember the rest of the discussion. He hangs up to a feeling of overwhelming emptiness. Is he supposed to feel sad when the man he thought he knew but completely refused to acknowledge Jisung as his son for the way he is, has now gone?

He sits down on his bed, suddenly dizzy. Instead of feeling glad for his mother calling him, a bitter taste rises onto his tongue. It’s only because his father died. She hasn’t called him once before, until now, just to inform Jisung of the funeral. Then again...

How bad must’ve the situation been if she hadn’t called Jisung before?

The way her voice was full of sorrow can’t be an illusion, she wouldn’t have apologised so many times unless Jisung was still important to her. But instead of feeling relieved or mournful or even angry, Jisung just stares at the opposite wall in his room without seeing anything.

 

*

 

Jisung’s mind is becoming progressively empty. He doesn’t really know why he walks across the halls of the library and sits down to read novels when he doesn’t take in any of the words, or why he picks up his notebook every day to draw or write something when he ends up staring at it for ages, the blankness of it jeering at him.

He’s back to the same as he was right after he escaped. But this time the emptiness is tinged with something else. Crushing dismay, seeping into the corners of every waking hour and making him cry out in frustration when he doesn’t get any of his raging feelings out. 

It’s not like he’s genuinely empty this time. It's more like something in his subconscious is trying to keep everything suppressed so he doesn’t explode.

Even Jisung himself is aware of this confusing feeling. A feeling he can’t even describe, one that makes his life shrink into something so useless and odd and messed up.

Jisung isn’t glad that his father died. How could he? As much as he wants to deny it, the man who was a part of his life for fifteen years still meant something to him. But the grief inside Jisung is heavily diluted, hidden behind the bruises his father caused upon him and the slurs that cut through his skin worse than blades. Confusion fixes itself around his ribcage and suffocates him.

The five stages of grief, he thinks. More like one stage. Apathy, because that’s all he’s sure he can ever associate with his father.

Jisung passes by the poems section every time he goes to the library. He does it unconsciously, not really being able to grasp why his legs lead him that route.

When he does see Changbin there, his previously so empty mind explodes full of thoughts. Full of memories and feelings. Grisly walls smelling of acid and blood, death lingering on them, start to crash in on Jisung. The man glances up and locks eyes with him, the darkness of them sending a jolt that reminds pain down Jisung’s vertebrae.

Jisung walks off so fast that he doesn’t even look where he’s going, his mind filled only with the input of his heightened senses bombarding him with smells, noises and feelings that aren’t supposed to be there. Only when he crashes straight into someone Jisung is thrust back into reality. A familiar head of curly dark hair appears in front of him. Even in his muddled state of mind Jisung has no trouble recognizing his best friend.

“Chan! Sorry, I was...” But Jisung doesn’t finish. He really doesn’t know what’s got into him, but Jisung immediately latches onto his friend like he’s a life-buoy that he’s been waiting for. Chan almost drops his chemistry book but hugs back carefully.

 

*

 

Visiting Chan’s apartment fills Jisung with a domestic warmth, temporarily taking him back to the times when things weren’t as complicated. He takes in the surroundings that haven’t much changed since he last was there. Then he notices; why should they have? It’s barely been a month.

Trying to remember what life felt like when he visited Chan’s place before everything went wrong is like trying to sprout gills from his neck and breathe underwater. Impossible.

Jisung sits down on the couch without waiting for Chan to do or say anything. The smell of books and cinnamon, the soft breeze escaping from the open window, the overall feeling is more like home than Jisung’s apartment. Especially now. Jisung didn’t realize how much he’s missed Chan and his place. He lets himself soak in the calm ambience, slowly emptying his mind and body from tension.

There’s no need for spoken deliberation; just like good old times, Chan rummages through his cupboards for snacks and Jisung turns on the TV to choose a movie.

For a while everything is like it was before. They laugh and commentate on the action movie packed with comedy that isn’t inherently funny but its cheesiness is what makes it entertaining. The ruffling of snack packages and their loud discourse rises over the actors’ voices and sound effects. For a while Jisung is completely lost in the moment, worries vanishing from his life. It’s exactly what he needed.

Everything is like it was before Jisung ran away from home. 

Before…

Fuck.

The movie has barely ended when Jisung doesn’t laugh along the dumb slapstick jokes anymore. His skin starts prickling and nausea crashes against him in enormous waves. The colours around him fade and everything is monochrome again, back to reality.

The reality that is Jisung’s father being dead. The crushing truth that no matter how much Jisung wants to run away from his past, it always catches up.

“Chan, I have to, uh, toilet,” Jisung stammers without even looking at his friend. 

He barely has the time to lock the bathroom door when he falls to his knees at the toilet bowl and a new tide of nausea ripples throughout his body. It brings all the food in his stomach up. Even after there’s nothing left to retch Jisung dry heaves for too long, tears stinging his eyes and his throat burning.

Chan knocks on the door sharply. His worried voice pierces through, “Jisung, what’s happening? Don’t even tell me you’re ok, you know I won’t believe. Please open the door.”

Jisung’s whole body trembles and his limbs are weak but he stands up and turns the lock. Chan’s face is pale with concern.

 

He tries to tell Chan but he’s at a loss for words. There’s nothing to say except the one simple sentence: _Hyung, my dad is dead._

He can’t say it. Not when uttering it will make it real, all the years of subtle and not-so-subtle abuse and later the complete neglect and Jisung’s last hope of reuniting to make up. It goes against his wish to have had a normal family and normal life and Jisung doesn’t know if he even wants to cry or complain to his friend when he’s just not sure if he hated or pitied his father.

Jisung doesn’t even notice he’s compulsively scratching his skin until Chan gently pries his hand away. His wrist is reddish and pulsing.

They’re sitting on Chan’s couch again, this time facing each other, the glass of water Chan brought for Jisung set untouched on the coffee table much to the elder’s chagrin. Jisung doesn’t dare look at his friend through embarrassment that washes over him in hot surges. 

“Hyung,” he starts, his voice raspy and small, “do you think I’m a bad person for not mourning over someone who used to be important to me but hurt me badly?” 

The words topple out of his mouth in an almost unintelligible torrent, but it doesn’t take long for the other to understand. Jisung looks up at Chan, eyes burning. 

“Jisung, you don’t mean… Your dad?” 

Jisung nods, still not knowing if he wants to cry or if he even can. Why would he? It wouldn’t be for his father. Or maybe it would, just not for who he had been for the past four years. Rather for the person Jisung lost, for the man who could have redeemed his spot in Jisung’s life. 

Eventually the thing that breaks him is the guilt Jisung can’t deny he feels for being a failed son in his father’s eyes, not being able to make up for everything before his father went. Whatever happens, the reality is that Jisung’s father will always have left with a hate towards his son. 

Jisung hides his head in his hands. He doesn’t want Chan to see that he’s crying but the sniffles make his breath stutter so violently that it’s obvious. He wants a fucking break from life, just for a while. He wants to feel like a decent human being instead of a failure.

And when the tears come there seems to be no end. They mix with the trauma of being kidnapped and the confusion for everything that’s occurred in the past month and, hell, even in the many years before that. All the smallest negative things that happened to Jisung stab him with tiny needles that wouldn’t affect him individually but combined they pierce his skull and send him into agonizing pain. He wants to stop but every time he starts calming down something else breaks him apart.

Jisung is a mess, but Chan lets him cry while rubbing his back softly. Jisung doesn’t even care that his cheeks and eyes must be puffy and he looks like an abomination. He never cries in front of people, not even Chan. It feels somehow freeing to finally let his feelings out in all their deplorable confusingness.

A vague burn has set in Jisung’s eyes when they stop producing tears. He’s completely dried out, his head light from not breathing properly and chest aching like he just ran a marathon, but there’s no suffocating feeling anymore. Jisung dries his face on his sleeves and rests his head on Chan’s shoulder, taking deep breaths to finally calm down. 

“I’m not a bad son… right?” Jisung’s voice breaks at the last word. His eyes sting again but no tears come out anymore.

Chan grabs Jisung’s shoulders and moves him so that they’re face to face. 

“Jisung, meeting you was a gift for me. You’re an amazing person. Just because someone couldn’t see you for all that greatness doesn’t make you bad.” His eyes are dark from sorrow but warm with compassion. “There’s always gonna be people like that. You were just unfortunate for it to be someone close.”

Jisung nods. His thoughts still haven’t cleared up but hearing Chan’s reassurance makes him calm, even if it is temporary. 

Maybe everything will be ok, one day.

He just has to focus on Chan’s warm body next to his own that feels like ice. 

“Hyung, tell me stuff about yourself,” Jisung mutters. It’s something they’ve often done when the other’s having a hard time: when Jisung is down he loves to hear about Chan’s life, anything from his interests and work to his childhood, and vice versa. It’s their odd way of comforting each other when they don’t want to talk about their own emotions.

The elder chuckles. “You already know so much about me. I’ve told you about my swimming contest at least ten times.”

“You know I never get tired of hearing about Australia.” Jisung loves it when Chan tells stories about his home, the place that seems like a whole different universe. 

So Chan tells Jisung about the wildlife of Australia, the heat that’s considerably worse than in Korea and the history of indigenous people. Jisung doesn’t care that he’s heard most of the stuff, what actually helps him is listening to Chan’s calming voice.

 

Chan has always been able to somewhat calm Jisung down. Not like he ever was a hellion of some kind. Jisung had been a restless child, never able to sit in one spot for long and craving new adventures or stuff to examine all the time. Credit to these traits, Jisung often saw himself to superfluous trouble.

The time he first met Chan was no different. 

“Come on, Jisungie, turn that frown upside down. You’ll meet new friends and maybe the camp organisers will teach you some manners, too,” his mum had reiterated. Her last words would’ve been slightly hurtful if not for the playful smile tugging at her lips. 

Jisung pouted. He knew this was because of his behaviour, he was old enough to understand, not even months until he would turn eleven. He was old enough to be aware of the consequences of his actions, and in his opinion, to decide whether to go to a ruddy summer camp or not. Sulking was of no use. His parents sent him there anyway, probably in hopes that Jisung would drain the whole summer break’s worth of energy by roaming around at an “adventure camp”. Jisung should’ve been excited - after all he did love adventures - but he rather went on them of his own accord and used his imagination.

The camp’s idea of an adventure was the complete opposite of imaginative. What about trekking into a forest to examine plants and sleep in a tent screamed adventure? Jisung got reprimanded for climbing a tree. So, an adventure camp minus letting kids have an adventure? 

Which was why Jisung decided to sneak on his own little excursion.

He shared a tent with two other boys he had already forgotten the names of. They had fallen asleep almost immediately, leaving Jisung to stare at the semi-opaque makeshift ceiling. As quietly as he possibly could, Jisung shuffled up and almost got caught immediately after breaking free from the fabric prison. He waited, plastered to the tent wall, for one of the patrolling camp directors to pass as time slowed down. Then he made a run for it. Luckily the darkness hid him well and the trees around the meadow they had chosen to camp in were close, providing a perfect hiding place for Jisung’s slim figure.

Heart thrumming with adrenaline, Jisung had followed a trail barefoot, cursing all the rocks and weird plants and other icky things. He didn’t like forests and even less he enjoyed it at night, who knew what kinds of malevolent bugs were just waiting to leech onto his skin? 

The trail led him to the bank of a river where they’d been fishing just a few hours ago. It wasn’t too wide, though both sides were flanked by a strip of large rocks almost as vast as the river itself. The sun was just about dipping below the trees on the opposite side, providing a last sliver of light on the rocks. Jisung hopped onto one tentatively, careful not to hurt his feet. It was surprisingly easy. It seemed the river had flowed higher at some point, and the current had polished the rocks so that they weren’t too sharp.

Not even five minutes into his precarious stone hopping endeavour, Jisung slipped on a particularly wet patch and someone behind him yelped.

“You shouldn’t be here! That’s dangerous.”

Jisung had been so lost in his own world that hearing the noise almost caused him to not find footing and instead fall straight into the river. He staggered for a few seconds and then turned towards the owner of the voice, a boy probably a few years older than him. He was standing right where the rocky part started with his hands on his hips.

“Are you gonna snitch on me?” Jisung frowned. He didn’t want his adventure to end so quickly, though the boy was probably right.

“Not if you stop now. Then I’d have to tell because you’d be in the river!”

“Hmph, fine. You ruined the fun, though.”

“You can have fun without almost dying!” The boy looked wholly dumbstruck. His expression reminded Jisung a bit of his mother’s look of terror when she caught him dangling upside-down on monkey bars or tying a sledge onto a skateboard to roll down the hill next to their apartment.

Even though Jisung was filled with childish resentment after meeting Chan, it soon disappeared when he found out how fun the boy was. What would’ve turned out to be a boring and imaginatively restrictive camp was made exceedingly fun. Chan had an amazing sense of humour - he wasn’t as boring as he had made himself out to be through their encounter - and gladly told many stories about his homeland, Australia, and Jisung happily gobbled them all up.

Even though Chan lived at the other side of town they quickly became best friends. After he moved out, he still was - is - the one friend who stayed beside Jisung for the longest time and knew him best, through all his hardships and impulses. Up to this day the aura of calmness around him hasn’t dissipated. The memory makes Jisung smile to himself.

 

“Chan-hyung.” After a moment of silence cuts Chan’s story off, Jisung sits up abruptly. “You tell me about so many things but you never talk about your relationships. I mean sure it’s personal but I wanna know, hyung, is there someone you like?” His voice is almost whiny. He really wants to know if there’s someone special in his best friend’s life, someone who makes him smile daily when he himself can’t through all his issues. That at least the person who’s important to him is having a good time.

Chan looks up, as if trying to search for the stars in the ceiling. Then he huffs to himself.

“Hmm, I think that’s a story for another time, Sung,” he says with a smile on his lips, but Jisung can see the tightness etched in the corners of his mouth and the way his eyes aren’t really taking part in the expression. There’s a faraway look in them, something almost rueful and yearning, but it’s gone quickly. “You need some sleep.”

“And so do you, hyung,” Jisung pouts. “When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep, huh?” Chan chuckles when Jisung aims a hit in his head with a pillow, and for a moment they both laugh genuinely, although something bittersweet laces it. The worries of the present flood away for just that moment.

Maybe one day, there will be more moments like this short-lived minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe i've got as far as chapter 6 already?? I think the chapters are gonna start being (hopefully consistently) longer now, i hope you don't mind. let me know if you like how this story is progressing! 
> 
> thank you so much if you've read this far <3


	7. Chapter 7

Jisung talks with Chan almost every day. They’re mostly just interspersed texts reminding him to eat and stay hydrated or asking about his mood, but Jisung appreciates it. They ground him to reality. They remind him of his surroundings when most things feel vapid.

Because if something is for sure, then it’s the fact that life is bland.

The most everyday things become foreign to Jisung. He’s truly lucky to have a friend like Chan, because otherwise he would suddenly remember that he hasn’t eaten all day or that he’s been staring at the wall for unknown hours.

Shutting away his thoughts is harder than Jisung expected - when falling asleep isn’t any better than staying awake. Nightmares still colour his nights but the same images sneak into his daydreams. Every time it’s either someone breaking into his room, the indistinct features of gangsters around him with pointed guns, or the voice of his father and the cries of his mother.

By now exhaustion has infiltrated every corner of Jisung’s life so well that it isn’t a guest but someone he thinks will stay forever in his life. Sometimes the irony makes him want to laugh - how he's more tired when there's no school to weigh on him, essentially no responsibilities, yet this exhaustion is almost worse than the kind dreadful nights of exam season used to bring upon him. At least then he was bleeding out of energy for a cause.

 

When university orientation comes, Jisung is purely dumbstruck. Something that stressed him out before summer break started had completely been wiped out of his mind.

Jisung stares at his phone in disbelief but the message is quite clearly displayed in the alarm, reminding him of orientation starting on August 21st. This exact day.

It’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. The faint rays of sunlight winged by early morning hours have already lit up his whole room. Nights are just a fight of staying awake despite harrowing tiredness because if he doesn’t sleep maybe the nightmares won’t find him. Yet he still can’t decide if the memories are worse when he’s awake or not, so he usually opts for the only solution where he can actually affect what happens around him. He finds distracting himself easier in an awaken state.

He hasn’t visited the university building before. Jisung lived way too far when he was in high school to manage a trip there just to see what the place was like. He believed it would be ok.

Now he believes it will be a disaster, regardless of what it looks like. He isn’t sure if it’s intuition or the horrible, frantic knock that’s been disturbing him ever since _the incident._ Jisung can’t believe that a few months ago his biggest reasons for stress were the university being musty or full of ignorant people.

Jisung contemplates whether he should wear a sleek button-up shirt or just go with a hoodie. Then he sighs at the whole debate. Both seem meaningless to him.

The idea itself of preparing for a new year at school strikes him with such incredulity that he almost pinches himself halfway through his mission to find a fitting outfit. More than anything he would like to wake up knowing that the past month has been an extremely long and absurd dream.

But as he slogs through a morning routine that’s somehow familiar from a million years ago, reality becomes more and more impenetrable. Everything happens mechanically, but maybe Jisung should - could - start to accept that this is his life now.

Then he breaks down over his breakfast cereal.

First of all, everything tastes bland and Jisung hates it, he knows he’s lost weight but that’s the least of his worries (even though it probably shouldn’t be). Secondly, no, as much as he wants to convince himself that the shit tornado evolving around him is perfectly ok, it really isn’t. Third point being that something about crying because he spilled some milk while preparing cereal says that he’s not in the right mindset for anything as draining as social interaction. 

Of course that isn’t the reason why Jisung broke down. He knows somewhat vaguely that this is how all the pent-up stress breaks free.

Everything is just crashing down on him. He wants more time to deal with whatever the hell he’s even feeling before going out and meeting people who he’ll be stuck with for years. Jisung doesn’t want to ruin his first impression but the emptiness that’s been gnawing at his mind for weeks is preventing him from thinking logically. It’s coaxing him into staying home and he almost concedes. 

 

So when he finally gets out of the bus in front of a large white building, clad in the thin pastel-coloured sweater and loose jeans he’d finally decided upon, Jisung kind of wishes he’d listened to the snappy voice in his head. His hands start sweating as he notices how many people are gathering at the entrance.

 _Smile and hide,_ that’s his motto. (It's not, really, that's just something he repeats to himself in social situations.) Jisung has learned long ago that if you’re distressed, you can’t show it. Otherwise you’ll just garner more attention. So he wrenches the corners of his lips slightly upwards in some attempt of a caricature of a smile, and avoids eye contact.

One word to describe the interior would be overwhelming. It’s too bright and white, then too colourful where the walls are decorated with paintings, too hot with all the jostling bodies. The air conditioning probably hasn’t kicked in yet when the first term will only start a few weeks later.

Examining the paintings around him, Jisung vaguely remembers that the university is mainly art-centered but offers literature and journalism majors for people like him. Jisung enjoys art, being a person who loves to draw, but right now all the bright colours of murals hurt his eyes.

Maybe Jisung can just linger at the outskirts of the crowd and hope that no one notices the fact that he’s feeling on the brink of passing out. Of course, life doesn’t give him that satisfaction.

“So-sorry,” someone with a peculiar accent mumbles next to him, “do you know where visual arts students are supposed to go?” 

Jisung turns to notice a boy next to him, one of his hands grasping at his neck in some type of anxious mannerism and his freckled face pink with what seems to be embarrassment.

Jisung was going to sigh in indignation but he can’t help feeling sorry for the boy who looks so lost. So he tries to put on his best smile. Jisung’s facial muscles have completely forgotten how a genuine smile looks and what comes out of it is probably more like a troubled scowl.

“Visual arts? We’re divided into groups, I think to-be literature and journalism students and visual arts students are one group? That means our first session is getting to know each other in the English class,” Jisung recounts what he quickly memorised on the bus on his way here.

“Wait, _our?_ So you’re an art or literature student too?” The boy almost bounces up and down from relief. His expression becomes decidedly softer. “I can stick with you, right?”

There’s something about the freckled boy’s voice that wakes an odd feeling of familiarity and warmth in Jisung. It might simply be the juxtaposition of his soft, guileless appearance and surprisingly low but pleasant bass voice. Whatever it is, it makes Jisung relax a little.

“Yeah, I’ll be majoring in journalism. And sure you can,” Jisung pauses with a slight tilt of his head as he doesn’t know the other’s name yet.

“Lee Felix,” the freckled boy beams at him nervously.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Han Jisung.” He isn’t sure if he likes the boy yet, just that Felix’s innocence wakes a type of protective instinct inside him.

He's sure of one thing, though. He wouldn't be surviving through random, unforgettable teachers' droning and necessary introductions to new people nearly as well if it wasn't for Felix's comforting voice and borderline annoying - yet in some way endearing - nervousness.

It’s beyond Jisung how Felix manages to stay so bright throughout the whole first day of orientation, but the boy’s sunshine-like presence manages to calm his nerves a bit. Felix takes everything with a smile, be it excited or nervous or even embarrassed, after making a superficial mistake.

Jisung is kind of grateful that he's found someone to share the experience that is orientation with. It's just distracting enough to take his mind off of the mess of recent events and instead focus on something satisfyingly mundane. Even the murals (that have luckily toned down for the interior of lecture halls) aren't as headache-provoking anymore.

The accent Jisung couldn’t put his finger on, he finds out, is actually an Australian one. It makes sense that hearing Felix speak caused something warm to bloom in Jisung’s chest - it reminded him of Chan’s accent when he speaks English, thick and homely. The boy smiles so brightly that his freckles shimmer like stars when he hears that Jisung has an Aussie friend in the same town.

“I bet you’ll be good friends with Chan.” Felix's smile is nothing short of inviting; this time the gesture is easier, natural even, to retaliate. 

“I moved here a few years ago,” he continues with enthusiasm but pauses before sighing, “Korean is really hard to learn, though. I haven't really improved that much.”

“I think you’re doing great,” Jisung tries to comfort Felix. He isn’t lying, though the corners of his lips tug up every now and then at Felix’s cuteness when he pronounces something wrong and his cheeks light up with pink stardust.

The feeling of conversing with someone effortlessly, without worries, lightens Jisung’s body so much that he’s surprised he didn’t even notice the baggage he’s been carrying. And the more he talks with Felix, the more Jisung is sure everything is some kind of odd game of fate - and this is coming from someone who isn’t religious or superstitious. 

“No way,” the younger - by a day, they just established - gawks at him, his perfectly circular eyes reciprocating the bemusement Jisung too feels. “Are you serious you were born on September 14th _in the same year as me?_ ”

“Maybe we’re long lost twins? You know, born just a few hours apart or something.” Though Jisung’s fully aware it’s a joke, Felix seems almost inclined to believe it, his face spray painted with freckles and completely different bone structure in comparison to Jisung’s features. All Jisung can do is shake his head in disbelief and laugh. 

"So... that means we're friends, right?" The slight apprehension in Felix's expression vanishes when Jisung nodds, his smiles melting into something more natural and comfortable as time passes.

 _Friends._ It's been a while since Jisung has thought about the word - getting to know new people is usually too awkward or unpredictable for his interest, and lately he's been a bit preoccupied with fending off an impending depressive episode. Yet now, Jisung takes in how naturally their conversation flows, surprisingly so as he isn't inclined to get on terms with most kinds of people, and cherishes every drop of warmness it evokes.

 

As they’re filling their own sheets of course choices, Jisung finishes before Felix and decides to glance around the room. The group of students isn’t huge and Jisung thanks the odds for that. What really unnerves him though are two guys who have been on-and-off eyeing him all day. Not even Felix's prattling has been able to completely distract Jisung from the odd tightness in his chest whenever he glances at them.

They’re both dressed in all black clothes, with leather jackets hiding their upper bodies even though it’s clearly too warm for the kind of apparel. Their ears are full of piercings and the looks they send Jisung are that of pure venom, as if questioning his nerve for joining orientation. Jisung has no idea who they are. He’s never seen them but every time they notice him staring back they turn away and mutter something to each other.

Felix has seemed to finish filling his own paper because suddenly his blonde head pops in front of Jisung’s view. Jisung blinks a few times and shakes his thoughts a bit. Maybe he’s just being frantic again. 

“Do you know those guys? Are they friends of yours?” he asks over the din that’s starting to fill the room as students are getting ready with their task. The tiny voice in Jisung’s head wakes after being suppressed for barely a second. So it wasn’t just his imagination. Felix glances at the two guys but they’ve already started moving away.

“I’ve never seen them before.” Jisung shakes his head. 

Felix’s expression turns pensive. “That’s weird. Maybe they just thought you look cute?”

“Yeah, right.” Jisung doesn’t even have it within himself to smirk at the joke. He can’t shake off the weird feeling he keeps getting when he looks at the boys. Surely it can’t be...

 

*

 

After students file out of the building that they will be visiting the next two days for more orientation stuff, Jisung is surprised it wasn’t as bad as he expected it to be. Maybe it’s because the people he interacted with were actually kind of nice and Felix’s talkativity was able to take his thoughts elsewhere. But after he waves the blonde goodbye, a heavy feeling overwhelms Jisung again. Goosebumps make their way onto his skin when he walks down the street towards his bus stop. 

Just a few blocks and he’s there. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have opted for the fastest route but for the one with most people. In perfect contrast to his usual reaction towards crowds, Jisung would love nothing more than a few strangers passing him by every now and then. The quietness pressures him to pick up his pace. Jisung isn’t sure why he feels so odd, but he finds out soon enough.

The feeling wills him to glance behind his back, but he’s beaten to it. Someone grabs his shoulder before he can make a single move.

Jisung is turned around roughly. His heart hammers up in his throat when he identifies the two guys he was stared down by before. Of course it’s them. 

“You sure it’s this guy?” One of them, the shorter one with less piercings, asks.

“I’ve heard enough of him to know he looks like that,” the other, more formidable-looking one mutters with a malicious sneer. 

“Boss will be so glad if he’s the one,” the first guy snickers in agreement. 

“Even if he isn’t, this dude looks so annoying I can’t help but wanna beat his face in.”

Jisung’s mind yells at him to run but it’s of no use. His legs are powerless in the one situation they’re needed most urgently, getting heavier by the second. His thoughts are becoming blurry again. More than anything Jisung wants to be swallowed by the earth. Why of all people does he keep attracting thugs?

Before either of the guys can make a move, the shorter of the two extends his arm in front of the other, apprehension twisting his face into a contemplative sneer. “Wait. We shouldn’t just beat him up if we’re not sure it’s him. We’d get in trouble.”

“You’re such a coward.” The taller boy rolls his eyes. “So what?”

“I say we check first, then take him to boss. I know someone who was there who’s scouting around here now, come on.”

“Fine. What a fucking buzzkill.”

If Jisung thought he could sneak away while the guys were arguing, he was wrong. The moment he starts inching away the taller guy grabs the collar of his shirt and starts dragging. Ice rushes through Jisung’s veins and he tries to thrash against the grip but it’s no use; the boy is at least a head taller than him and twice as muscular. The shorter makes a call in a low voice Jisung can’t decipher.

They drag him behind a building, next to a desolate playground that probably hasn’t seen occupants for years. No passer-by will ever find them here. Jisung also has no chance of escape. He's sandwitched between a rusting fence and the firm arms of a gangster. Great.

“This is getting boring,” the boy holding Jisung still complains. “We can throw a few punches, he’ll notice the jackass still, right? Maybe he won’t need plastic surgery for his ugly face when we morph it a bit.” 

Jisung knows he’s doomed. He doesn’t care anymore, they’ll beat the shit out of him but he won’t go down a loser. “Fine, punch me then,” he spits at them. “You’re one to talk about ugliness, probably got denied surgery because the kind that reaches bone-deep is incurable.” Weak, but he’s surprised his voice even works through the all-consuming panic.

The boy holding onto him sends the first punch.

Well, technically Jisung does. The first one that hits, at least.

The gangster lets go of Jisung’s shirt and pushes him roughly. Jisung thought that if he reacted quickly enough he could jab immediately but he’s caught off guard, stumbling to the side before hitting one of the fence posts. Thanks to this momentum, though, he’s able to scarcely dodge the first fist.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Jisung swings his arm and barely feels the pain flaring in his hand when it hits its target. Before he can regain his footing a fist crushes against his nose and simultaneously he's flung back against the metal. A sharp pain shoots up from his spine. Something warm immediately starts flowing as pain blooms across his face along with adrenaline all throughout his body. An overwhelming fear takes hold of Jisung, replaces the short moment of confidence, sending waves of hysteria over him in thick pulses. 

One of the boys kicks him in the stomach with their knee and Jisung wrenches back, trying to return some of the hits. His fist connects with one of their faces again but he can’t tell whose. In the end he’s still powerless. He might break a nose, get a few drops of blood out but that’s it. Two experienced fighters against one - it’s a sure defeat for Jisung.

Jisung is on his knees, he pulls one of the guys’ legs from under him and sends him toppling onto the pavement and hitting his head. Jisung doesn’t know if there’s people around him, watching or running away, but if there are no one’s stopped to help. Another punch into the face and Jisung can’t see anything but lights bursting in the middle of oily darkness.

Only when he hears someone's voice do the blows end.

 

“What the fuck do you idiots thing you’re doing?”

“We- we found the spy, we’re gonna kill him-”

“You fucking imbeciles, that’s not him. I was there. Stop beating up an innocent kid before someone calls the cops on you.” The voice is vaguely familiar but Jisung can’t recognise it under the cacophony of blood and stress hormones rushing in his ears.

“But he’s- Look at him! We’re sure it’s him.”

“I _know_ what the guy looks like. You think it’s a good way to boost your rank by beating up a random guy who you _think_ is someone based on stories? I can tell you’re wrong, this isn’t him.”

“We wouldn't have called you if we didn’t know,” one of the guys claims but there’s an edge of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Jisung can’t identify which one is talking, he’s too busy trying to suppress his nosebleed and stave off the blur in his eyes.

“I can’t believe you called me for this bullshit, just for me to traipse here, catch you on your tough guy act and say you’re beating up the wrong guy. Couldn’t at least have waited ‘til I got here? Now fuck off.” The man’s voice is raspy and frigid. 

Jisung blinks for a few seconds, shakes the blinding pain away and notices a short man in leather pants with tattoos circling his openly displayed arms. Changbin. The boys stand before him, hesitant. Clearly they’re not drawn to disrespecting the orders of a gang member with a higher rank.

“Fine, say it’s not him, so why can’t we beat him up?”

“Not your place, asshole. You’re gonna gather attention. You might be gangsters but you don’t assault random kids. That’s just being rash and stupid, _not_ how things work. Now listen to orders and _leave._ ”

Something in Jisung’s mind snaps more painfully than the kicks and punches, like a switch that had been waiting to be turned but needed the right moment.

Changbin just saved him. He willingly chose to let Jisung go.

Jisung’s mind is blurry. There’s nothing to explain this. Why would Changbin interfere when he could’ve chosen to agree that Jisung is the person they were looking for, or completely leave him alone? Jisung pushes himself up, his vision slowly returning to normal and acknowledging the amount of blood on his shirt. The bus ride home is going to be great. Jisung tries to suppress his nosebleed with his sleeves.

The guys who beat Jisung up skulk off, cursing and muttering to themselves. Now there’s only him and Changbin on the street. Instead of dread filling up Jisung’s lungs, now he feels only apprehensive and confused.

He knows Changbin won’t harm him, and the fact that Jisung openly admits to this fact makes his stomach twist as if he’s going to be sick. He should be feeling anything but what he is now; scared, angry, frustrated, but instead there’s an impending black hole in the middle of his chest.

“Piece of advice: don’t come here for the next days of orientation. Do yourself a favour,” Changbin says.

Jisung glances at him. Face hidden by a mask, his eyes strangely warm instead of vicious and full of something Jisung doesn’t have the time to make out before the man turns his head away. It could’ve been anything from disgust to pity or sympathy.

It doesn’t make any sense - not from the man who almost killed him, who let him go against all odds and more or less saved him, twice. Nothing makes sense when looked at as a whole picture. It’s too much to be a coincidence and too volatile to be normal.

“Wait-” Jisung doesn’t even have time to speak before he’s bluntly cut off.

“Consider yourself really fucking lucky that I was scouting in this part of town. You better be more careful,” Changbin mutters and turns around. For the first time Jisung doesn’t want him to leave. He wants answers; he _needs_ them. But Changbin is already walking away swiftly, without looking back.

 

*

 

Jisung’s instinct was right. The bus ride home is absolutely awful. People keep - understandably so - staring at him, but no one says a word. The sweltering air is even thicker with the curiosity and disgust of passengers filling even the tiniest crevice where the heat just hasn’t reached. Jisung mutters an apology when a mother pulls her children away from him. He’s pretty sure his face has blushed so red that the blood on it is barely distinguishable anymore.

He takes a shower the instant he gets home. He’s already used to the stinging pain and blood washing away, getting swallowed by the drain. The amount of times he’s had to clean and patch up wounds in the past month is ridiculous. Jisung doesn’t mind the process. He’s just glad that he isn’t dead. 

Just as before, his mind turns on autopilot for the rest of the day that stretches on and on. He almost doesn’t register the way this time everything is far more empty and meaningless than it was before, heavier as it crushes and crumples his shaken mind like a worthless piece of blank paper. Almost, he doesn’t subconsciously take note that his breaking point is nearing if not surpassed.

When he gets into his room he slumps on his bed and his heart clenches when he thinks of Felix - who could’ve become a good friend to him, Jisung knows it - all alone and nervous in orientation, wondering where Jisung disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much if you've read this far! Every reader and every comment is so dear to me, I honestly can't believe a fic I started writing on a whim has gained so much attention.  
> In a way it makes me embarrassed that this particular fic of mine has received such unexpected acknowledgement, since, well, to me it's just a bucketful of clichés. But I'm glad if even one person who's clicked on this is enjoying reading. Also- I hope the quality hasn't declined too much since I suck at perseverance, oops  
> Thank you for reading <3


	8. Chapter 8

UPDATE:

If someone didn't read the original version of this post (yes I'm notifying through a chapter because I don't know how else to bring this about) basically i was informing that i'm most likely going to discontinue writing this fic. However, I've given it a second thought and talked with a lovely friend of mine who gave me some advice and instead of making rash decisions I'm going to settle for putting this on an indeterminate hiatus.

 

I might leave it until after my finals - since my decision to impulsively stop writing this was probably heavily influenced by a stressful breakdown. I'm sorry for making such a statement and promptly backtracking. I didn't think that people still enjoyed reading this, and i still stand with my point that i find the whole plot to be heavily contrived - but maybe, if I give myself some time I can find a way to at least partially fix that. Which means instead of giving up wholly, without considering the options, I’ll take some time to see how I feel about this story and if I want to continue it. So hopefully you can forgive this blunder of mine, I’m honestly so sorry. I'll get back in a few weeks and let's see whether I'm going to continue this or not. 

 

Take care everyone, and once again sorry for the inconvenience.


End file.
